


the kindness of strangers

by 100indecisions



Series: Loki fic [13]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (because Thanos is several universes away from being a good dad), Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Loki Feels, Loki Whump, Loki wasn't the bad guy in The Avengers, Loki-centric, Past Child Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Warning: Loki, also minor appearances by other characters probably, ladies being awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100indecisions/pseuds/100indecisions
Summary: Gamora is there when Loki falls into Thanos’ hands, and she’s there to watch Loki break under torture. She’s not going to defy her father (yet), but in the beginning, she gives Loki a little advice: find a core truth about yourself and bury it deep, and once Thanos has broken and remade you into what he wants, something of you might still be left. (This fic is basically complete; I still need to finish Part III, but it's a complete story already.)





	1. Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> This is--finally--my fic for Marvel Big Bang 2016, squeaking in just under the wire like I do with nearly everything. It's been in the works to one degree or another for about two years now, so I finally committed to completing it for Marvel Big Bang as a way to force myself to get it done. The [gorgeous artwork](http://neurovicky.tumblr.com/post/153814087839/my-art-for-the-kindness-of-strangers-by) is by [neurovicky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neurovicky); many thanks also to [lizardbeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardbeth) for beta-reading, which I deeply appreciate even if I didn't make all the suggested changes. (As in my previous Marvel Big Bang fic, if something seems slow or unnecessarily drawn out, it's probably because she suggested cutting it and I just...didn't want to. Oops?)
> 
> This story is basically complete and will run 6 or 7 chapters; I plan to post a chapter each week until it's all up. If you want to see me whining about writing, crying about Loki, and posting whatever else I feel like posting, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelightofthingshopedfor.tumblr.com).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** some torture; aftermath of unspecified injuries from falling through the Void and crash-landing
> 
> A couple other notes:  
> \- The Other is never named in the movies, but at some point it occurred to me that this might be because Loki doesn’t know his name rather than that he doesn’t have one. If he does have a name besides "the Other," of course Gamora would know it--for that matter, she wouldn't necessarily know him as "the Other" at all--so I figured it didn't make sense to use the title in anything written from her point of view. So, I did a little [wiki research](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/The_Other#Trivia) and decided that Gamora's narration would refer to him as [Corvus Glaive](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Corvus_Glaive_\(Earth-616\)), the name of an Earth-616 character who bears a strong resemblance to the Other in both position (Thanos' right hand) and appearance (nasty). Other than the use of this name, though, the fic is all MCU, not comics canon.  
> \- One of my biggest problems with _Guardians of the Galaxy_ was Gamora's characterization, which was inconsistent at best and nonsensical or nonexistent at worst, and this fic mostly grew out of my desire to write her in a way that actually made sense. To that end, I consulted the movie, the [deleted scenes](http://www.themarysue.com/nebula-gamora-deleted-scene/), and the [prelude comic](https://www.amazon.com/Marvels-Guardians-Galaxy-Prelude-Marvel/dp/0785154108), and then cherry-picked what made sense to me and ignored everything else, instead focusing on writing her in a way that seemed internally consistent to me rather than specifically accurate to movie canon.

 

  


* * *

**Part I: Sanctuary**

For as long as Gamora has known him, Thanos has been a collector, entirely unmatched. He has been so for much longer than that, in fact; Gamora herself and all her siblings are proof.

His collection is never static, and it certainly does not exist merely for his enjoyment (although she is quite sure he does take pleasure from both the pieces he cherishes, in his own way, and the ones he discards). He is not Taneleer Tivan, to keep something because it is interesting and leave it intact, suspended in time in a transparent case.

Thanos’ interests have always been rather more practical. And he is very, very good at pulling other beings apart to see how they work.

He does put them back together, eventually, if he finds them meet for his purposes. But they are always warped, pieces fractured and missing, because there is no point for Thanos to engage in reconstruction that is not in his image. And he always knows where the cracks are, how to break and remake everyone who crosses his path.

(Sometimes—often, in fact—he breaks and then discards, but it is better not to think of that.)

There is nothing unusual about the day Thanos adds a new piece to his collection, nothing in particular to distinguish it from any other. There are no true days or nights on Sanctuary, after all, no sun to rise and set, only endless corridors of metal and stone surrounded by stars and the darkness of deep space. Time is marked in shifts, and Sanctuary never truly sleeps. For the Chitauri, the lack of natural light and an accompanying cycle is irrelevant; for the rare visitors who choose to come, it is unimportant. But for the prisoners unlucky enough to have caught the Titan’s interest for their knowledge or abilities or some indefinable quality that lends a special savor to their deaths—for them, Gamora thinks, Sanctuary’s eternal night must seem horribly appropriate.

Especially for this one. Gamora is standing by her father’s throne with Nebula when Corvus Glaive makes his report: they plucked this creature from the Void, still alive, still capable of speech, still (relatively) rational. Thanos does not visibly react, but she can feel him come alert, his attention bearing down on his lieutenant. It is not hard to understand why; as far as Gamora knows, no one survives the Void unaided, and for this creature to have done so, even barely, marks it as something special, possibly even unique. Something useful.

“I would see it,” Thanos says.

Corvus bows, looking pleased, and makes a sharp gesture at two of the Chitauri with him. They leave for a moment, and when they return, they are dragging a stumbling blue-skinned figure with black hair and tattered clothes. Kree, Gamora thinks, but no, the blue recedes as she watches, momentarily turning his skin patchy and sick-looking before fading into pale grayish-pink. The remnants of his clothes appear to be armor, at a closer look, and the metal is scorched, the leather torn or shredded. When they let him stop, he sways on his feet, and a nudge to one bloodied shoulder is all it takes to push him to his knees. He catches himself on both hands, winces, and then pushes himself sideways so that he is no longer quite kneeling, and Gamora’s eyebrows twitch upward at this pointless but unmistakable show of defiance.

Corvus steps forward and seizes the prisoner’s head in both hands, one twisted in his hair, the other pressed to his temple. The prisoner’s eyes aren’t focusing, but he shoves weakly at Corvus’s hand at the side of his head as Thanos looks down at him.

“He is Loki of no father, fallen prince of Asgard and lost son of Jotunheim,” Corvus says, “Liesmith and Silvertongue and Skywalker. I will dig all the secrets from his mind, and he will serve you.”

“Is that so?” Thanos says, and smiles. “Show me.”

The other’s grotesque thumb presses hard against the prisoner’s temple, and he jerks, eyes widening—and then Corvus recoils as if he’s been burnt, and Loki slumps forward in a graceless heap, bloody teeth showing as he grins.

“You will pay for that,” Corvus growls, reaching for him again, but Thanos forestalls him with an upraised hand. If anything, the Titan simply looks amused.

“You have spirit,” he says to Loki. “I can use that. You will not be tamed by a mere underling so easily, hmm?”

“Go to hell,” Loki rasps.

Thanos’ smile widens. He crouches, still towering over Loki, and seizes the prisoner’s head in one hand. Loki tries to push him away too, but Thanos ignores his fumbling hands, holding him still. After a moment Loki goes rigid with a choked gasp and then starts to shake in Thanos’ grip, his eyes wide and panicked. His chest isn’t moving, Gamora realizes; he’s stopped breathing.

“There you are,” Thanos murmurs. “You are too strong for my lieutenant, aren’t you? For a little thing like you, your defenses are…formidable. But that is no matter.” He turns his hand, forcing Loki to look up at him. Loki stares, eyes watering with strain, lips starting to lose color. “I am stronger, and you will serve me yet.” He lets go abruptly and the prisoner collapses, gasping for breath.

“Take him away and make him secure,” Thanos says. Corvus hurries to obey, snapping orders to the waiting Chitauri, who haul Loki upright and simply drag him when his knees buckle.

“Have you further instructions, my lord?” Corvus asks.

“I need him alive,” Thanos says, “and I need him broken. I hope that is enough for a beginning. But do not attempt to breach his mind again. Not yet.” He turns away in dismissal, gesturing for his daughters to follow him, and halts in the shadow of his floating throne.

“I have plans for this one,” he tells them. His eyes gleam in a way Gamora does not quite recognize, and something inside her goes cold.

“Plans?” she asks neutrally.

“Terra,” he says. “There is an artifact I want, and he is the key to gaining it.”

“What do we need to know?” Nebula asks. “I can do it. Whatever it is, I can make him tell us.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Thanos says, and the very mildness of his tone somehow makes his rebuke all the more terrible. “This creature is not one of your pathetic targets, to spill all his secrets after a few well-placed blows.” He turns his gaze on Gamora, suddenly enough that she almost flinches. “Perhaps you have been paying enough attention to tell me why that is.”

“He is defiant,” Gamora says. “Focusing on breaking his body would only harden his will to resist.”

“Precisely. Even in this weakened state, he possesses certain defenses that render him not entirely tractable. Breaking his body must be merely a method to break his mind and weaken those defenses. I wish to mold him for my own use, and so I need him utterly broken, not merely in body but in mind and spirit. When he is malleable, when his will is irrelevant, then he will belong to me. I am confident you will not fail me.” This last is theoretically addressed to both of them, but the warning it contains is clear (as is the attempt to manipulate them against each other).

“Of course,” Gamora says, because it is the only thing to say.

He turns back to his throne, dismissing his daughters as clearly as he dismissed his lieutenant. “I must plan. You may attend to your duties.”

“I will not fail you, Father,” Nebula says, but Thanos is no longer listening, and after a moment she turns on her heel and stalks away. Gamora waits under the stars for a moment before seeking out the nearest access hatch that leads beneath Sanctuary’s surface. Once there, she walks through the corridors, keeping her strides purposeful and her expression closed, with nothing to give away her thoughts. She has never liked standing still very long when she needs to think—it’s too obvious, too vulnerable, too much like helplessness—and it is not wise, even for her, to appear to be without purpose.

And she needs, very much, a little time to think. She does not know exactly what Thanos wants with Terra, only that it cannot be anything good. She is not familiar enough with Terra’s history to be able to guess at what the artifact might be, either, but if Thanos desires it, then it must be something powerful, something capable of great destruction. And if that is the case, it will not bode well for the rest of the universe.

She is a daughter of Thanos, by necessity and unyielding determination (and by something she refuses to call desperation, even in her own mind), but she is also the last surviving member of the Zehoberei race. This second identity is not one she considers often; at best it is not useful to the life she leads now, and at worst it is dangerous, but it still exists, always, alongside anything else Thanos might make of her—a kind of sacred responsibility, almost, even if she has little time or patience for religion or superstition. And the last survivor of the Zehoberei, in the name of all the unknown dead that she alone carries, burns with quiet rage at the idea of Thanos gaining the power to wipe out another race.

But: she does not know, this time, and she has not survived as long as she has by gambling on incomplete information. She is not such a fool as to begin now. If she is partly responsible for this new prisoner, however, there is no harm in speaking to him. She will be expected to speak to him, in fact, and there are many things she might say—now, when he is lucid, or later, when he is vulnerable. Thanos wants him broken, and she knows what might be said to nudge him toward despair, if she chooses to do so.

Or she might tell him…something else.  

She waits about an hour to go to him the first time, long enough that the Chitauri will have finished locking him away but not so long that she expects anyone to have begun the true work of breaking him. There is no rush, after all, and simple hunger and thirst are effective ways to prepare a new prisoner.

In the intervening time, she accesses his file (she is not at all surprised to find that he already has one), because she is always thorough, always preparing carefully for anything she chooses to do. The information there is brief, to be updated whenever necessary, and it seems to consist primarily of things Corvus must have gleaned from Loki’s surface thoughts without much effort: that he is a sorcerer of no mean skill, that he learned only recently that he shares no blood with Asgard’s royal family, that he fell into the Void when the Bifrost was broken. That he is a Jotun runt, abandoned as an infant, and he sees himself as a monster. There is nothing tactical, such as Asgard’s weaknesses or the location of particular artifacts, but those are not so important, not yet; as far as Gamora knows, no one can truly keep secrets from the Mad Titan, particularly ones that indicate where cracks will begin to form when the appropriate pressure is applied. And then Corvus and Thanos will be able to take from his mind anything they wish, perhaps control his will entirely.

Still: Thanos did not seem to think the new prisoner would break quickly. Only time will tell.

Sanctuary has many detention areas, some larger and more populated than others. Loki is being held in one of the smaller ones, a section that is completely sealed off from everything else and located near the edge of space where only cold vacuum awaits him if he manages to escape through a wall. It is also devoid of other prisoners with whom he might try to communicate. Even this detention area has many chambers, some large and full of tools, some small enough that they would more accurately be termed cages than cells.

At the moment, Loki is in one of the larger cells, a dimly lit room hollowed out of rock with a single chain hanging from the center of the ceiling. At the end of the chain is a hook, such as one might use to string up a carcass, except that the body on the hook is Loki. It’s not entirely accurate to say that he’s dangling from the giant hook piercing his shoulder, because his bare feet are almost flat on the stone, but he already seems to be having trouble keeping his balance. His hands are bound behind his back, and most of his clothing has been stripped away, revealing old bruises, burns, and evidence of freshly healed wounds. Despite the hook he is more alert than he was when she saw him first, judging by the way his eyes immediately focus on her when she enters the room. He has already been given some manner of very basic healing, then, which does not surprise Gamora; breaking a prisoner’s body is far more reliable if one controls the process from the beginning rather than starting off with significant but unknown injuries.

 

His voice is still raspy, if slightly less than it was (and it does not take much effort to imagine how it will sound, soon enough, when it breaks from screaming). “You…do not look like the Chitauri.”

“I should hope not,” Gamora says. “Do you know who I am?”

“I would take you for a Valkyrie,” he says, quiet and hoarse, “but if that were so you would not come to me, for I cannot succeed even at dying and I know Valhalla is barred to me.”

“Well, you are not entirely wrong. I am a warrior, and I suppose I have been a herald of death for many.”

“You are not going to kill me now,” he says. It is not a question but a resigned statement of fact.

“No. My father has plans for you.”

“Your—” He squints at her and musters up a smirk. “You’re adopted, I take it.”

“I think we have that in common,” she says with a smirk of her own. He twitches at that and glares at her, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t answer, and she says, “Thanos reshaped me, as he will reshape you. He is very good at that.”

Loki sneers at her—rather impressively, considering his position, but she can already see him fraying at the edges. He holds his very self together with nothing but pride and rage, and it is impossible to say how long that will last. “I will not kneel. I will give him nothing.”

“Yes, you will,” Gamora says. “You will break, sooner or later, and you will give him whatever he wants.”

Loki’s foot slips, momentarily putting more weight on the hook, and he hisses through his teeth. “And you are here to…what…sweet-talk me into cooperating to make things easier on myself?”

Gamora leans against the wall, eyebrow raised. “I’m a living weapon. What makes you think I am here for any other reason than to add to your torment?”

He has the presence of mind not to move his shoulders, but his eyebrows lift in a tiny shrug. “His other servants are quite capable of that while lacking some of your…particular charms. It follows that you are here for a slightly different purpose.”

“I sincerely doubt Thanos believes you are likely to crack for a pretty face,” Gamora says dryly. “Perhaps I wanted to speak to you for my own reasons.”

“Well then,” he says. His legs are beginning to tremble. “At least…you are more interesting than the Chitauri and their loathsome leader.”

“High praise.” She pushes away from the wall and takes a few steps toward him. “I am here to tell you one thing,” she says. “This is what you must understand: _he is inevitable_. No one can see you here, and no one is going to find you. Even the flow of time runs differently here, when Thanos wills it. He is patient, and you _will_ break. And then he will get what he wants from you, because he always does.”

“If you are trying to intimidate me,” Loki begins, and she wants to laugh at his bravado.

“No,” she says instead. “I am telling you a simple fact. What you think of it is not my concern. But here is another fact: there is one thing that cannot be taken away from you, if your will is strong enough, one thing that might prevent the utter dissolution of your self.”

“And what is that,” he says.

She straightens, pinning him in place with her gaze. “ _Truth_.”

His laugh is a broken, desperate thing. “Then I am indeed doomed. I have been called Liesmith and I earned that title, but all my life I lacked the intelligence to see that the greatest of lies were being acted upon me. I am no longer certain I would recognize the truth if it confronted me to my face.”

“You misunderstand me,” Gamora says. “You know how to trick and persuade, and you are a sorcerer. You already know what it is to believe something, even when all logic and your subconscious mind resist it, and believe so strongly that you make it true. _That_ is what I mean.”

“It is…not always so,” he says, but the arrested look on his face suggests he at least understands her point.

“No,” Gamora agrees, “and clinging to a belief when the universe is tearing it down requires great strength of will. But if you can do it, if you find a hard little core of truth and bury it deep enough inside you, where even you might not always remember it exists for anyone or anything else to extract from you…then, when you are finished being broken apart and remade, some part of your self may yet remain for you to recover.”

“You know this,” he says.

It isn’t phrased as a question, but Gamora answers anyway, “I do.” She considers saying more, perhaps that Nebula was genuinely sweet once, a long time ago, and that even after she grew accustomed to her new life and could kill without flinching, for quite some time she hated to inflict unnecessary pain, until Thanos burned out of her everything that did not suit him and left behind nothing but frustrated rage. That Gamora was never _nice_ except when it suited her, even before; was already hard, and fierce in her defense of anything she considered hers, and so once Thanos had broken and remade her, she had something left of herself, harder even than the shell he made her create.

“And what of you, my lady?” he asks. “What is your truth, that you may do anything at all against this false father of yours, and what have you done with it?”

Her lips twitch in another smirk, the same that has often been the last sight of many who have underestimated her. “That is my business, and none of yours just yet. But if we meet again, and your mind and your will are still your own, perhaps I will tell you then. Now—” She reaches for a switch on the wall. “If you are wondering, this isn’t personal,” she says, and cranks the chain tighter until he really is dangling from the hook with several inches of empty air separating his feet and the rock floor. He jerks once, instinct making him struggle, and then he goes as still as he can, eyes squeezed shut in pain and chest heaving with rapid, shallow gasps.

With all his weight on the hook through his shoulder, every breath must be agony, and yet he still manages to smile sardonically and say, “You are…full of contradictions.”

“I am still alive,” Gamora says, and even she is not sure whether she is giving him a reason or simply restating what he’s said. It will take a very long time to break him, she thinks now, and she suddenly knows she will be sorry to see it happen, but Thanos is patient when he needs to be (like Death is patient, knowing all things come to her sooner or later), and inevitably, the lost Asgardian will shatter. If he is strong enough to take Gamora’s advice, perhaps there will be something left, after Thanos breaks and remakes him.

“Find your truth, Asgardian,” Gamora says, staring up into his eyes, and he is watching her again as if unable to look away. “Your touchstone, if you will—a word, a phrase, a memory. You will have time, for now, before Thanos decides you have weakened on this hook long enough and truly begins to take you apart. Use it well.”

She can feel his gaze follow her as she leaves, his strained breaths loud in the cavern, and she does not look back.

Almost immediately, she has business elsewhere, so it is several hours before she returns to check on him. Her motive is not, of course, borne of some foolish sentiment or weakness disguised as compassion. After all, it is a matter of legitimate importance to monitor the well-being of a prisoner like this who must be carefully broken and reassembled. Well enough for him to think himself forgotten; far less so for her to be negligent, as long as she shares this responsibility, and risk some accidental harm coming to the prisoner in her absence.

These are solid, reasonable defenses. It is entirely possible she will not even need them, but it is always best to have them ready and believe them herself.

Loki is limp on the hook, turning just a little in place; he looks even more gray and sickly than he did when she left, and his eyes are squeezed shut, but they flutter open when she lets him hear her approach.

“Come to…see your good work?” he asks hoarsely. “If you think this will break me—”

“Not at all,” she says. “As I said, my lord is patient and creative. This is only the beginning.”

“You…do know how to charm a man,” Loki says.

“Of course. Is that what you think I am trying to do?”

“What…else?” He stares at her with bloodshot eyes. “If he had wanted to break me with kindness…he could have started there. Instead you give me a taste of your cruelty…and think that will make me…desperate enough to submit to a little sympathy? I am not…such a fool as that.”

“My kindness is my own,” Gamora says, not sharply because she _does_ know how to control her own reactions. “It is also, at the moment, irrelevant. Have you given any thought to what I told you?”

“Yes,” Loki says. “I thought…I might tell your father, next I see him…that your loyalty is weaker than he thinks.”

“You could, that’s true. He would not believe you, but you could try, and with your silver tongue you might succeed in planting some doubt. But for you, it will change nothing, because I do not believe he will send you away from here until he is convinced that he owns you.”

“I can be…very convincing.”

For the first time she feels a stab of pity for him, proud little prince who hasn’t yet realized he’s in the grip of monsters the like of which he’s never dreamed. She keeps that particular emotion off her face without effort. “I do not doubt it. But you will not see him for some time, I think. The Chitauri will come for you soon enough.”

He bares his teeth in a rictus grin. “Good. I grow…rather bored.”

Gamora’s lips twitch. “My father is right, you know. You do have spirit. I wonder how long that will last.”

* * *

 


	2. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** A lot more torture, as well as psychological/emotional/mental manipulation. The most graphic torture scene is probably the bit with Nebula; if you'd rather not read that, when she offers to show Gamora Loki's Jotun form, skip down to the next section break. I'm not sure what other specific warnings might be helpful, so please tell me if there's something I should add here. There are also references to past child abuse in the context of Gamora and Nebula being daughters of Thanos.
> 
> [Artwork in this chapter](http://neurovicky.tumblr.com/post/154101251339/chapter-2-of-the-kindness-of-strangers-by) is again by the immensely talented neurovicky (and although it's much less graphic than what I actually wrote, seeing it makes me feel just a _little_ bad for beating up Loki so much).

This is truth: Thanos is patient like Death is patient, with the calm surety that the universe will bow to his will in the end no matter how long it takes. He demands results of those who serve him, of course, but for his own ultimate triumph, he is more than willing to play long, long games. He has been thus for as long as Gamora has known him and much longer before that.

The methods he uses to break and reshape the prisoners for whom he has specific intentions are no different. His children and soldiers have many duties, and there is no need to keep a prisoner constantly occupied when slower methods are just as important to the eventual outcome. Sleep deprivation, thirst, and hunger are constants, wearing down prisoners a little at a time; chaining a prisoner in a variety of stress positions can also be effective in the long term, especially combined with heat or cold or darkness. More than once, the Chitauri bind Loki’s hands behind his back and suspend him by his wrists, so that his own weight slowly drags him down and dislocates his shoulders; or they string him up by a chain around his throat that forces him to balance on his toes if he wants to breathe and chokes him when his legs finally give out. As she told him, too, the flow of time does not always run smoothly in Sanctuary, not when it suits the Titan’s purposes to do otherwise, so that any torment—passive or otherwise—may be drawn out much, much longer than it seems to anyone safely outside such a pocket of slightly warped reality. These manipulations are not always in use, because it is effective too if prisoners cannot rely even on the consistency of their own senses, but in Loki’s case, most of the chambers in which he is kept are equipped thus.

For Loki, the darkness seems to add a particular horror; it is very early that he passes the point of being too weak to fight them, but he still tries to struggle every time he is dragged back to the lightproof, soundproof little cell in which he is sometimes kept. Every time he is hauled back out again, hours or even days later in real time, his eyes are a little wilder, and he is a little slower to come back from whatever terror has him in its grip. Gamora wondered at it, the first few times she noticed the flicker of something like relief when Loki adjusted to the glaring light and recognized the Chitauri, but then she has never before heard of someone who survived falling through the Void. She can only guess at the scars such an experience would leave upon a living being’s psyche.

It is, of course, impossible to pinpoint precisely when the fractures happen, and which ones are more meaningful than others. Gamora does not involve herself in a good deal of the process, but she is to monitor any progress or lack thereof, so she is aware of what is done to him. There is a particular poison the Chitauri seem to enjoy, for instance, one which makes the victim’s flesh feel as if it has been turned into molten metal. Almost without exception, victims left unbound have clawed off considerable amounts of their own skin in a mindlessly frantic effort to stop the pain. Often, too, the Chitauri turn to heat and fire; Gamora notices that the bottoms of Loki’s feet, in particular, are nearly always burned black and flaking so that trying to walk is agony, and she supposes the use of heat in any form must be a special torture for a Jotun, regardless of the skin he happens to be wearing.

She wonders, still, how long he will last, and finds she is not pleased to learn that she was right, when she guessed that it would take a long time for him to break.

* * *

Gamora can remember, a little, what life was like before Thanos. She does not think about it often—not about family or friends or the wide-open skies of her home planet. Survival is incompatible with useless longing for something that no longer exists, and she knows that to fixate on the past rather than the present or the future is to invite destruction. But she remembers—a little—what she was before Thanos. She does not try to fool herself into thinking that the girl she was and the assassin she has become are the same; nor does she waste time wondering whether either deserve to survive. But she knows who she was and who she is.

She remembers, a very long time ago now, when Nebula first came to Sanctuary. Thanos had more children then, although not for terribly long, and Gamora’s first thought was that this tiny blue girl would not survive long either, that she was not strong enough even for the least of the necessary modifications. There was something almost fragile about her, in her desperation for approval, too focused on genuinely pleasing her masters instead of simple survival. Gamora was not much older than Nebula at the time, but she had already survived enough to know what it meant to be a daughter of Thanos. She was hard, and decisive, and inclined to be efficient with her violence, and so she survived where others did not. She had, in fact, cultivated those talents since she understood she could choose to do so. For almost as long as she can remember, she has exceled at delivering swift, nearly painless death, and she is proud of that, inasmuch as she is proud of anything she does in service to Thanos.

And Nebula—

They were still quite young, both of them, when they were first assigned prisoners to torture—not for information, simply for more focused practice than anything they had yet pursued in training. Gamora already knew how to wall away her horror and do what was necessary to survive, but she could not rid herself of the sense of _wrongness_ , in drawing out a creature’s suffering when she had been trained for so long simply to kill. So she killed, because that was what she knew, and somehow convinced her teachers and Thanos himself that it was eagerness hastening her victim’s death, not pity or even distaste (and never, ever mercy). And because of her skill in dealing death—and in enduring pain, when necessary—she was allowed to focus her attention there, and not asked to cause pain any more often than any of the Titan’s other children. Not so with Nebula. She couldn’t force herself to do it, the first time—she broke two of the prisoner’s fingers, vomited in a corner, and could not return. For her failure, she was turned over to several of her older siblings for practice, and Gamora did not see her again for nearly a month. She was missing a hand and an eye by then, forced to do without until she could prove to her father that she was worth the replacement parts. Never again did she hold back from inflicting pain.

It is hard to remember now, seeing the viciousness with which she obeys orders both to torture and to kill, that she ever hesitated. Gamora has known many who take great pleasure in breaking others, like Corvus or Ronan or Thanos himself, and she does not think Nebula does, not really—but it is her ferocity that sets her apart, that first made Thanos take notice of her and approve of her, and she is desperate for that approval. There is pleasure in a job well done, too, and if doing a job to Thanos’ satisfaction involves shattering another living being, she is quick to devote her considerable intensity and resolve to the task.

Loki is no exception. Nebula does not spend all her time with the new prisoner that has gained Thanos’ attention, of course, or even most of it; her time is more valuable than that, Corvus is also highly motivated, and the Chitauri are perfectly capable of making a Jotun runt bleed and scream. But Nebula is dedicated, and she is good at what she does, and as always she wants to prove to Thanos that she is worthy. Often, when Gamora checks in on the prisoner—because, after all, it is her job to monitor him too—Nebula is there, alone or with a few Chitauri, her expression always hard with determination.

Now, a few months after Loki’s arrival, Gamora finds them in a small chamber hollowed out of rock near Sanctuary’s surface. Loki is sprawled on his back, most of his body covered in blood, with Nebula kneeling beside him. As Gamora watches, Nebula picks up his hand and begins working a knife under one of his remaining fingernails, and he makes a pained noise but doesn’t even try to pull away. Nebula hasn’t paralyzed him, at least not deliberately; he’s simply too injured and weakened to move.

Nebula glances up and sets aside the knife. “Watch this, sister,” she says by way of greeting. “I figured out how to trigger the change between his two forms, but—look.” She picks up a superheated metal rod, its tip glowing white-hot more brightly than all the stars above them, and touches it to a relatively unblemished patch of skin on his palm. He jerks, mouth opening on a gasp of pain, but outside the new burn, his flesh remains pale and grayish-pink. Clearly this isn’t what Nebula means to show her, so Gamora waits—and then almost protests anyway when Nebula digs her fingers into a particularly large wound on the prisoner’s chest and peels open part of his ribcage. They aren’t supposed to _kill_ him, after all.

But the flesh comes up easily, and she realizes the gash isn’t fresh; a few of his ribs have already been broken with nearly surgical precision to allow access to his heart. His fingers twitch down by his side, but he can’t do anything to defend himself, not even when Nebula touches the brand to his heart.

He chokes on a ragged scream, spine arching off the ground so sharply that Nebula has to jerk back her hand to avoid inflicting unintended damage, and blue washes across his skin. His exposed muscle darkens and toughens, shading into a rather sickly purple, and when Nebula leans away to give Gamora an unobstructed view, the heart looks almost leathery, suited to a creature shaped for harsh conditions.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” Gamora says, intrigued—or rather, choosing to be intrigued, to feel dispassionate interest, because otherwise there will be nothing but rising nausea and the way Loki is staring up at them both, mutilated chest heaving, pain and despair just as clear in his red eyes and blue skin as in his Asgardian form.

(It has been this way for as long as she can remember, and the choice is nearly always an easy one—but at least it is still a choice, and surely that means something. Surely she will be able to choose differently, when she has the luxury.)

“Something like that,” Nebula agrees, “but it’s an imperfect one. See—” She finds another patch of relatively unmarked skin, this time just above his knee, and applies the rod with precisely the same amount of pressure she used on his hand. The reaction is immediate and dramatic: his skin turns nearly black, cracking open and leaking fluid, and he makes a thin, agonized sound.

“It’s a defensive reaction to extreme heat, but his Jotun form is actually more vulnerable to burns,” Gamora realizes.

“The change happens in reaction to extreme cold, too,” Nebula says, “but cold doesn’t damage him, so it’s not very useful.”

“No, I suppose not,” Gamora says, and wonders what it means that she is still not disturbed, or at least does not feel any unease, even if it exists inside her to be felt. Chooses not to wonder what the girl she used to be would make of this.

* * *

Another time, when Nebula is away on a mission, the Chitauri haul Loki over to the rack, lock his wrists and ankles in place, and pull him taut until every line of his body is tight with strain. And then they leave him for Gamora to monitor while the rack does its work. This particular instrument is not some primitive construction of chains and pulleys; it functions smoothly and automatically, taking up every infinitesimal amount of slack as Loki’s body struggles to adjust. It will not pull his bones out of joint, not yet; that is for others to do, not an impersonal machine. But the machine can stretch every joint nearly to breaking and hold there for a long, long time.

There is no specific reason for Gamora to be the one to watch him this time, but her father’s lieutenant had strongly suggested that she take this duty while cleaning and sharpening her knives, and she is not especially inclined to antagonize him when it is not important to do so. So she sits down a few paces from the rack where Loki is laid out, ashen and trembling, and sets to work. His breathing is shallow, but not enough to be an immediate concern, and for long moments the only sounds in the chamber are those of his rasping breaths and metal scraping metal. Finally he makes a noise that bears some resemblance to a throat being cleared for speech, were it not so thin and strained. Gamora says nothing, but she pauses in her sharpening and waits for him to speak. He has not tried, before now; but then, she has not been alone with him since that first day.

“Why,” Loki pushes out, before having to pause for breath. “You could…help me. Kill me. Instead you tell me…find my truth…and do nothing.”

Gamora leans back, considering him. “I am sure you have a theory.”

“Two,” Loki says. “That you are…nothing more than…another way to break me. Or that…you are afraid.”

For a moment, Gamora thinks about telling him the truth, or part of the truth, or whichever truth seems to be ascendant at the moment: that Thanos trusts her, or at least trusts his hold over her, and if she waits for the _exact_ right moment, she may yet be able to take the weapon he crafted of her mind and body and turn it against him. That if she chooses to help Loki now, with the outcome so unsure, she risks throwing away her chance for nothing, thereby dooming more worlds like her own. That she does not _know_ what Thanos intends with Loki, and therefore she cannot gamble everything before she is certain she must act. That yes, she is afraid of Thanos, afraid down to her marrow, and any thinking being should be as well, and perhaps everything else she tells herself—everything else she holds close as evidence that she does not belong to him—is merely an excuse for her own cowardice.

She could do as Loki asks, of course. Truly help him, whether that means killing him outright or planning an escape. But the truth that matters the most in this case is simple: her reasons have not changed, and they far outweigh her pity for Loki (and her desire to prove to herself that she is not a coward). Whether they are still _good_ reasons or merely excuses to salve what remains of her conscience is immaterial. She has committed herself to waiting until the right moment, so that is what she will continue to do. An assassin, after all, must always wait for the right moment or risk losing everything, and if she is nothing else, Gamora is at least a deadly assassin.

She has already considered as well that in allowing her to speak with Loki (because surely he knows that she has done so), Thanos is manipulating her too, either into revealing unquestionable disloyalty, or breaking Loki completely by winning his trust and then betraying him. She would like to think she is too careful to fall into either trap, but arrogance is a flaw she knows she cannot afford, especially where Thanos is concerned, and so she allows herself no such comfortable assumptions. She will continue be cautious, and she will neither say nor do anything that she cannot defend to Thanos if necessary.

So she says, “Perhaps,” and returns to sharpening her knives, with only the faint sound of Loki’s pained breathing in the background.

* * *

This is another truth: Gamora does not like to think in terms of what she _can_ and _cannot_ do. It is too much like helplessness, to look too long at the choices she is denied, and she learned a long time ago that helplessness is a short step away from death or worse. Instead she assesses situations and finds choices to make, and then she chooses, and she does not regret or look back—even when the choices are impossible or effectively meaningless. There is always, _always_ a choice of some kind to be made, and to choose is to regain some measure of control over the situation, no matter how small. If she chooses, she cannot be forced one way or the other, and therefore she is not helpless.

(She knows, on some level, that she is tricking herself and that the illusion of choice is no choice at all, practically speaking—but she also knows that this illusion helps her survive, and there is no shame in that. Or at least, if there is, she refuses to indulge it.)

_I am still here_ , she thinks, over and over again, even when it feels like a lie. _I am still here._ Still alive. Still herself. _I am still here_.

* * *

Nebula is thorough, and Corvus and his Chitauri are thorough, and despite everything she has seen and done and felt, Gamora finds herself grateful that her skills lend themselves to actions that are over quickly and neatly, and that Thanos’ opinion of those skills requires her to spend a great deal of her time carrying out her duties elsewhere. (This is cowardly, she supposes, but she has survived this long in part by knowing when _not_ to speak and act, and trying to prevent the inevitable will help no one.) And every time she returns, expecting to learn that Loki has at last broken to Thanos’ satisfaction, she finds she is wrong. Most such prisoners do not take long to break under sustained torture—days, perhaps weeks. Loki is there for months in real time, considerably longer to his perception, still imprisoned whenever Gamora returns: starving, increasingly filthy and bloodied, the majority of his body covered in burns, clinging to fewer and fewer of the last threads of his sanity as they bring him to the brink of death and pull him back, again and again.

Gamora is not there to see him break, not quite, but she sees enough to watch his defiance slowly, slowly crumble. And as he weakens, Corvus adds new torments, digging progressively more deeply through his thoughts and feeding Loki’s fears and nightmares and worst memories back to him. The first time Gamora observes one of these sessions is also the first time she sees Loki truly weep. She sees, too, that Thanos speaks to him, unlike the Chitauri; that sometimes he brings comfort or respite, unlike Corvus. She does not hear everything Thanos says to Loki, either, but she hears enough. He is almost…gentle, sometimes. Almost reassuring. Tells him, “I plucked you from the Void; now I will give you the purpose you have always desired.” Tells him, “The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life’s joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. I can deliver you from this deception.” Tells him, “Freedom is life’s great lie. Accept that, in your heart, and you will know peace.” Tells him, gently: “You were made for this, my little monster, for pain and the dark and the bite of blades in your flesh,” and draws the point of a strangely glittering scepter down the side of Loki’s face in a painful caress. “You were made to be ruled.” She sees Loki reject it, at first, and then struggle to remember that he wants to reject what Thanos is telling him.

She is there to hear it when the prisoner finally abandons outward defiance and begins to beg, _what do you want from me, what do you_ want _, I’ll do it, I’ll do anything, just tell me_ , to see Thanos smile as he leaves the Chitauri to their work.

“He seems ready enough to cooperate,” she observes neutrally.

Thanos chuckles. “Certainly, if I wanted a servant who will seek to undermine me the moment he has the chance. No. He is not ready yet.”

“Should we watch for something in particular?” Gamora asks.

“It will not happen soon, I think. And you need not concern yourself; I will know.”

She is there, too, when Loki stops desperately offering anything he thinks might save him, only begging _please, please, please_ over and over as if he has forgotten all other words; and she is there, much later, when he gives up entirely and stops trying to speak at all, stops struggling and pleading, stops screaming for his family, simply accepts agony as his due.

“Soon,” Thanos tells her, his expression satisfied, and something unpleasant curls in Gamora’s stomach, the same mingling of fear and relief she feels whenever Thanos is pleased. It is all the more confusing now, because she knew this would happen, she _told_ Loki this would happen, and she _does not care_ because caring is incompatible with self-preservation, and yet…it is not quite the same, to know that something is inevitable and to watch it occur.

She is not there to see it when Loki finally breaks to Thanos’ satisfaction, so she does not know what, exactly, convinces Thanos that it has happened. But she is there to see it the first time Loki reaches blindly toward the sound of Thanos’ voice, to see the desperate gratitude on his ravaged face when Thanos tells him _good_ , and she thinks: it will not be long, now. So she is not surprised when the day comes that Corvus and the Chitauri bring the prisoner before Thanos again. He can barely walk, but he goes willingly enough, as much as he can, and he makes no effort to resist when Corvus shoves him to his knees. Instead he stays there, swaying a little, head hanging and expression empty.

And Thanos smiles. Gamora does not flinch, because she never flinches, but that smile has become no less terrifying for her familiarity with it. He rises and strides toward the prisoner, scepter gripped in one powerful hand, and Loki just waits without reacting.

The titan presses the scepter’s blade-like tip under Loki’s chin and forces his head up. “Well, child,” he says, “I think perhaps you will be a useful tool for me now. What do you think?”

Loki swallows against the metal and does not reply, because it is no longer his place to think.

Thanos’ smile widens. “Who is your master, boy?”

“You are,” Loki says dully. His voice is thin and cracked from screaming, but he speaks without hesitation.

“Whom do you serve?”

“You.”

“What will you do for your master?”

“Anything,” Loki whispers.

“And what will you let me do to you?”

“Anything.”

Thanos picks up Loki’s right hand, presses it open flat, and keeps going, overextending the fingers backward. There is a tiny _snap_ in the stillness as the first finger gives way, then another, and Loki flinches but makes no effort to pull away. Two more fingers break and the thumb is twisted out of joint, and silent tears start to leak from the prisoner’s eyes, but he makes no sound.

“Good,” Thanos says, and he drops Loki’s broken hand only to wrap his fingers tightly around the prisoner’s throat, and although Loki’s breathing changes to a shallow rasp at the pressure, he still does nothing, hands hanging limp at his sides.

In truth, it is more disturbing than Gamora expected. Thanos never wanted her quite this broken, and none of the others who’d been shattered like this had begun with so much proud, fierce spirit. But she has already done what she is willing to do, so she watches without expression as Thanos draws his prisoner upright, presses the scepter’s tip against Loki’s temple hard enough to draw blood, and whispers something even Gamora cannot hear. The gem at the scepter’s heart flares, washing them both in pale blue light.

Loki is trembling now, struggling to breathe, eyes wide and unseeing, and then Thanos abruptly releases him and he collapses to his side. The titan smiles down at him, something both paternal and predatory in his gaze. “And now, child, we are allies, are we not?” he asks, and Loki blinks up at him. “You will fear me and obey me, but you will not remember that I tamed you. You will only know that you serve me.” He nods to Corvus, who waves forward two Chitauri that clamp a collar around Loki’s neck and then haul him up and drag him away, his expression still dazed and blood running freely from the side of his head.

“Well done,” Thanos says to Corvus and his daughters, and if he looks primarily at Gamora as he says it, she pretends not to notice. Nebula clearly does, because she goes stiff at Gamora’s side, but there is nothing to be gained by either of them speaking up, and Gamora at least recognizes that. She has more reason to want to avoid Thanos’ reaction than any vengeance from her sister.

And she does not exactly _hope_ that Loki will rediscover a seed of rebellion in himself, because hoping is too much like wishing, and Gamora has not indulged in such helpless, pointless behavior in a very long time. But as she watches him stumble away between his Chitauri escorts, she finds herself feeling sorry for him and Terra alike, and wondering uneasily if she should have done more—if the quest for this artifact was the bright line she had resolved not to cross, and she was too cautious to realize until it was too late.

For just a moment, she is caught between hope and equally pointless regret, and then she firmly turns her attention to other matters.

* * *

They allow him to heal and rest, after that (but not too much of the latter, or his mind might recover too swiftly), and sometimes they even feed him, although Gamora is not sure whether anyone else remembers that their prisoner-turned-ally might need to eat. Slowly the blankness in his expression is replaced by something just as sharp and feral as the first time Gamora laid eyes on him, only now it is more wary, more focused, both more and less desperate. He does not speak to her, seems almost to forget that she exists—seems to forget that anything exists, in fact, except Corvus and Thanos and their plans for Midgard. Even as his pride returns and brings a new arrogance with it, he seems unaware of the heavy collar or the way Corvus uses it to lead him around like a beast on a chain. His cell is given a little light, and he no longer protests when he is locked away, nor when he is bound to the wall by his collar whenever he is left alone, nor when Corvus takes hold of his mind and forces him through psychically induced training scenarios that often leave Loki with glassy eyes and a bleeding nose. Every now and then, Thanos tells Loki that he is pleased with his progress, and Loki smiles to hear it, and his smile is like a brittle blade.

And so Loki is built back up into the weapon Thanos desires, a process that takes little more than two weeks. Gamora is there when he is brought to the portal Thanos has constructed for this purpose, his own power and knowledge twined with that which he has drawn from his new ally. Loki is dressed now in elaborate armor, heavier than what he wore when they pulled him from the Void, and although his wounds are all gone or hidden from view, he still looks vaguely ill. But he holds his head high, and looks on the Chitauri with something like disdain, and still makes no sign of noticing the chain Corvus holds or the collar around his throat to which it is attached.

“Time for a final reminder, I think,” Thanos says. Corvus presses one hand to Loki’s temple, and Loki goes rigid, his face drawing tight with pain, but he makes no move to pull away. “Good.”

Corvus removes the collar, finally, and drops his hand. Loki sways a little but keeps his feet, and his eyes focus on Thanos. “I will not fail you.”

Thanos smiles. “No, you will not.” He holds out the scepter, and the blue gem at its heart glows palely as Loki accepts it. “Kneel.” Loki obeys without hesitating, sinking to one knee and bowing his head, and Thanos opens the portal. There is a great flash of blue light as it draws Loki in, and in the last instant before the portal snaps shut again, Gamora sees through it a crystalline cube that radiates cosmic power.

Only then does she realize what, exactly, Loki has been sent to retrieve. Only then does she learn that Loki has been sent to use it to open a stable portal for the Chitauri army, with which Terra can be conquered or destroyed, and then he will return and deliver Thanos the Tesseract. And for a long moment that freezes the blood in her veins like shards of ice, all she can think is _I have failed_. She has not done enough, and Terra is going to fall like her world did so long ago, all because she was so determined to wait for the _right moment_.

Despair is an old companion, one she has not indulged in a very long time, learning as every surviving child of Thanos did that some emotions lead only to paralysis and death. Whatever else she may be, Gamora is a survivor, and so she hauls herself back from the edge through sheer force of will. This is what she does: she survives. She does not dwell, _ever_ , on anything that cannot be changed, except what is necessary to identify mistakes and prevent them from happening again. Only the present moment matters, the present moment and what she does with it.

So: she cannot change what has already taken place. She cannot go to Terra herself, either. Perhaps Loki will recover himself and stop his own invasion, and although she will not say she hopes for that outcome when hope accomplishes nothing, she recognizes that it would be ideal. Otherwise, she will be ready for his return, and then she will act.

It will not be too late. She will not _let it_ be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original inspiration for my characterization of Gamora--and for this fic in general--came from a series of tweets Noelle Stevenson a.k.a. Gingerhaze wrote way back in August 2014 in response to a Gunn interview. She had a lot of the same frustrations with _Guardians of the Galaxy_ that I did, and what she said about Gamora stuck out to me:  
> 
>
>>   
>  this gunn interview basically acting like he invented Thanos ewwwww...  
> ...but also saying "Nebula is Thanos' sweetest kid which says a lot about the others" and awww  
> and Nebula being something of an innocent who ends up on the side of evil through bad luck and having less emotional strength than Gamora  
> really GotG could have been such a study in good/evil and how it doesn't always align with lawful  
> Gamora is Azula and Nebula is Zuko, but if Azula was trying to do the right thing and Zuko was still desperately trying to win favor/honor  
> we don't know what caused her to betray thanos. we never see much of her guilt, her fear, her conflict of interest.  
> because that's what the established, in dialogue. She has a similar arc as Black Widow, but we KNOW what changed BW's heart.  
> aside from the very brief moment in the prison pod, we see NONE of that echoed in her current character.  
> it doesn't change the fact that she was raised as a child soldier. brainwashed. she DID what he told her to do.  
> she committed those crimes herself in his name. that doesn't just go away. fighting for her agency could have been her arc.  
> trust the audience to believe that gamora has done terrible things, that she still could do them, she has the training - but is fighting to do the right thing. Don't soften her edges. Don't smooth over her background.
> 
> So that's what I tried to do with her. I haven't actually read any GotG comics, so I don't know whether my Gamora is any closer to 616 Gamora than the movie is; instead she's what I wanted her to be, basically, what made sense given her background and presumed motivations. I tried to give her reasons to do what she does, rather than what Gunn apparently did, which was fall back on the tired, boring "she's the moral heart of the team and also sometimes a damsel in distress because she's The Girl" trope, even if neither of those things make any sense with her background. I'm not positive I was always successful with what I tried to do, but I'm pretty sure my Gamora is at least more consistent than Gunn's, which is the main point.
> 
> Oddly enough, in trying to make Gamora consistent, I ended up writing her in a way that was probably influenced by the characterization of Chell in the Portal 2 fic _[Blue Sky](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7434133/1/Blue-Sky)_ , which is otherwise completely unrelated but definitely worth a read if you've played the game.


	3. Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** references to previous torture and brainwashing, but nothing anywhere near as graphic as the previous chapter. Also, Loki making an effort to be a dick.
> 
> More art by neurovicky! I love actually _seeing_ the scenes I wrote.

**Part II: Midgard**

The plan is unfolding perfectly, and still Loki cannot shake the growing sense that something is very, very wrong. Not with the plan, exactly, or at least not in the way it will further his goals; Selvig has the Tesseract and his iridium and he is on his way to an ideal power source, and Loki is being marched onboard SHIELD’s helicarrier to play his part in crippling the Avengers before they can properly come together as a team, and something is _not right_.

He is careful to project unconcern and even disdain for the human soldiers that surround him and the agents who watch him through every camera he passes, and in truth he finds it highly unlikely that any of the mortals would truly be able to hurt him if they tried. They are inventive, and they have Thor now to advise them, but he is not actually worried about what they will do to him. And yet—

There is something about the long rifles, the metal corridors, the simple fact of being imprisoned that makes his skin crawl. Something about shackles and collars—never mind that the humans have used none with him—and the ever-present ache in his bones that has faded since he stepped through the portal but has not yet vanished entirely (and he still cannot determine why he felt so ill in the first place).

It is fine, he tells himself. The Other is impatient, but Loki will not fail, will show the Other and his master that Asgard’s castoff prince is a force to be reckoned with. He will bring them the Tesseract, and they will be pleased, and—everything will be fine. He will have what he deserves. He need not fear the Void, ever again.

 _Who controls the would-be king?_ Thor demands in his memory, and Loki’s lip curls (even as uneasiness stirs somewhere in his mind). No one controls him. Not ever again.

No one except—

No, that is wrong. Isn’t it?

Fury leaves him in a circular prison made of glass and metal, and Loki is alone (for the first time since—he is not sure when. Since the Void?), and his mind will not stop worrying at it, the wrongness like an itch he cannot quite ignore. It is worse when he thinks of Thor, until the anger drowns it out; worse when he thinks of the image of his mother that appeared to him before he stepped through the portal, that he dismissed as a trap. Better when he thinks about the army waiting for him, ready to fall on the humans at his command; worse when he catches himself wondering, very vaguely, what happens after.

The Black Widow’s arrival is a welcome distraction, but only for a moment. “After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm,” he says, smiling. “And I would cooperate—” and why is he suddenly certain he has had this exact conversation before? Or—not this precisely, but something very like it, speaking to someone very like Romanoff of her intentions, and _why_ can he not remember?

(…why does he think there is something to remember in the first place? What could he have forgotten?)

“I want to know what you’ve done to Agent Barton,” Romanoff says, as he thought she might, and this is good, this is all part of the plan, he knows what to do with her concern for Barton. He draws out the story of the hawk and the spider, a little at a time, and he is almost sorry they must be enemies. There is true steel in her, both fire and pragmatism. Well, perhaps he can make an ally of her too; certainly Barton would be pleased. (Except—he doesn’t want that. Does he? Why should he care if Barton is pleased?)

“I like this,” he tells her, with a wide grin he knows looks more than a little mad. Something is still tugging at him, something— “Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man?”

She lifts her chin, but only a fraction, and her eyes are hard with resolve. “Regimes fall every day; I tend not to weep over that. I’m Russian, or I was.”

There is something about her, something he cannot name, and why is it so damned _familiar_? “And what are you now?” he asks, and that is somehow worse, every word drawing him closer to— _what_?

“It’s really not that complicated,” Romanoff says, and then: “I’ve got red in my ledger. I want to wipe it out.” There is…a cadence to it, something he _knows_ , not the words but the sense of…something practiced, repeated, held close…

 _Can you?_ Loki wants to say, means to say. _Can you wipe out that much red?_ He learned enough about her from Barton to know where the old wounds are, knows what to say to destabilize her and the rest of this ragtag group, and instead he hears himself ask, “Is that your truth, Agent Romanoff? Your touchstone?”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” she says.

There is more that he means to say, and more that he needs to know, and for a long moment he is silent, struggling to think. What is he missing? It is something important, it has to be, but _what_ —

Romanoff is waiting silently too, watching him, her expression revealing nothing. A tiny certainty slots into place, and he finally puts words to part of it: “You’re the wrong color.”

Her eyebrow rises in what he thinks is genuine surprise, although the expression of it isn’t. “What color should I be?”

Of all the _utterly_ inane things to fixate on— But it is true, somehow he knows he is on the right path, and he is at least certain about this much: “Green. You should—you should be green.”

Romanoff glances down at her black jumpsuit, then back up at him. “You want us to match?”

“Not your clothes. Your skin.” Yes, and _why_ —

Her other eyebrow goes up, and her expression flickers with interest. “Sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?”

“Of course I am,” Loki says impatiently. “And no, I do not mean Banner. I am not _blind_. There was a green woman, and she was like you, an assassin, beautiful and deadly, and she spoke to me—” He falls silent, digging through his strangely clouded memories. Romanoff, wisely, doesn’t comment on his complimentary comparison and simply waits.

  
  


It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s truly tried to examine his memories of his allies or how they came to be his allies, which is exceptionally strange, and as he thinks it, he realizes something else: that his mind seems less clouded now than it has in…a long time. He doesn’t know how long.

“She spoke to me,” he says again, as if he has to convince anyone but himself. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? There was the Other, his master, pain and darkness, and he made this bargain freely, he must have done, so what is this lingering sense of the green woman and some strange, harsh kindness?

_Is that your truth, Asgardian? Your touchstone?_

_If you can do it…if you find a hard little core of truth and bury it deep enough inside you…_

For just a moment, everything inside him goes still, and in the stillness there is a single phrase:

_I am Loki of Asgard, and I—_

_I will not be used—_

For a wild moment he can taste the blood choking him, _smell_ it, is almost certain he sees not Romanoff but Gamora and the endless dark of Sanctuary, and a surge of nausea rises in his throat. A cascade of memories threatens to overwhelm him, and he pushes back with a rush of panic, because he cannot lose this fragile thread of control he has regained—shoves down the sudden feverish desire to _check_ , to make sure there is no collar around his neck or shackles around his wrists, no hook through his shoulder, no knife carving him open or rack tearing him apart. He will have to remember everything, if he survives, every torment and humiliation, and that is not a particularly cheering thought, but he cannot afford to do so now, when he has a glimpse of the truth and enough anger to do what he must. He has one chance and he can already feel himself slipping, blood and pain and a terrible voice that seems to resonate inside his skull, _You were made to be ruled_ and _This is where you belong, on your knees like the beast you are_ and it’s true, he knows it’s true, but—

 _I am Loki of Asgard, and I will not be_ used _._

He breathes out, once, twice, slowly, grasping for control, and forces his fists to uncurl; realizes his has drawn blood, without noticing, where his nails bit into his palms. More blood, of course, and him tricked into turning on himself again, but at least now he knows.

He laughs without humor, startling Romanoff. She’s too practiced to flinch, but her calm regard sharpens. She wouldn’t understand the cosmic joke of all this, of course, but Loki is as much the punchline as the humans are, and now that he knows, he wants—he wants—

He refocuses on Romanoff and says, “I need to speak to Thor. Immediately.”

“I’ll pass that along,” she says, stepping back. “Might be a few minutes.”

Loki nods and turns away, giving in to the urge to pace as he thinks. He is suddenly fascinated by his own word choice, back in the Tesseract facility, because to say that he is burdened with glorious purpose is, perhaps, to indicate that _someone else_ carried out the act of burdening him in the first place. If his buried truth was working its way to the surface even then—

Yes. Not just in words but in actions. He could have crafted a better plan, could have taken Fury under thrall from the beginning, could have chosen subtle manipulations over showmanship, could have picked off the Avengers quietly instead of giving them a common enemy and a reason to band together against him, could have done so many things differently if he truly wanted to win. If he truly wanted Thanos to win. And instead, he has been…sabotaging himself, already, without even realizing it, and he owes that at least in part to Gamora’s words.

He does not remember choosing his touchstone, not really—even now most of his memories of Sanctuary have blurred together (and that is for the best, because he can feel it, endless shapeless horror waiting somewhere in his mind to cripple him if he cannot hold it back), but even at that, he does not remember _deciding_ anything. It simply _was_ , a truth his subconscious mind clung to even before he realized he was doing it. And it is truly curious, the words that became his touchstone laying claim to the home that had cast him out, perhaps even to his family. He is not entirely sure he wants to examine what that means and equally aware that he will have to, eventually.

Because he remembers…he is not sure what he remembers. _I remember you tossing me into an abyss_ he told Thor and that, he thinks, is not entirely true (remembers, instead, opening his hand), but he is not sure what _is_. Surely not Thor’s idea that Loki’s grievances are “imagined slights,” he _knows_ that was not true, but…he is also not certain that Thor’s shadow loomed quite so large in his mind before he fell. He cannot rule out the idea that Thanos might have tainted his memories of Asgard too.

Later, if he can, perhaps he will be able to untangle those memories. He is at least certain that he wants nothing to do with the Titan, and for now, that is enough. The question is what he is going to do about it. 

For a tantalizing moment he considers seizing Midgard after all, uniting it under his rule to defend against Thanos. He could do it, he thinks—be a king in truth, a _good_ king bringing peace to the squabbling mortals, and he could finally show everyone—

And with another breath he lets the idea go, because a scheme like that still involves far, far too much risk, and it is inevitable that at least a few more humans would die for it, which would please Thanos regardless of the ultimate outcome. With the knowledge that Thanos manipulated his mind somehow, he knows he cannot trust any idea that would further the Titan’s plans, even in a small way. He has been compromised, as the agents say, and anything he does must take that fact into account. Galling as it is, then, his best chance is to truly work with the humans rather than trying to use them.

He has no idea how the scepter’s hold on his mind functions, whether he is always being watched or only when Thanos bothers to take specific notice, whether his thoughts and memories and intentions are completely open over such a great distance or if perhaps the Other can only perceive what Loki sees and hears. He is certain only that the Titan’s manipulations will not be easily undone, that he cannot seal up the fissures in his mind on his own, and that he must be exceedingly careful now in what he says and does. Thanos used the scepter on him with some degree of finesse, and Loki suspects the same level of precision would not be possible from a distance, but he also has little doubt that a more brute-force form of control would be effective. They do not need his conscious mind, after all, as much as they need his knowledge and abilities—and at this point, considering what he has already set in motion, they may not need him at all.

So: he cannot simply tell them straight out the details of his plan, or those of the Titan’s greater schemes to the extent that he understands them. (He is not entirely certain he wants to either, but he suspects that reluctance is simply part of whatever Thanos twisted in his mind and therefore does not deserve to be heeded. He knows, with absolute certainty beyond genuine anger or implanted loyalty, that he hates Thanos and wants to stop him, that this was true even when he was incapable of consciously realizing it, and that his best chance of frustrating the Titan’s plans lies with Thor and these humans.) He only hopes that someone here is better at hearing what is left unsaid than Thor is wont to be.

Thor is not alone when he arrives but is accompanied by Fury himself, and Loki is relieved to see Romanoff making no move to leave either. Out of the possible audiences he could find on this ship, they seem the most likely to understand at least some of what he needs to tell them—if Fury’s judgment is not already clouded by anger and Romanoff’s by her attachment to her hawk.

“So,” Fury says before anyone else can speak, “I hear you finally feel like sharing something with us ants.”

“I daresay what I _feel like_ is irrelevant,” Loki says. He must be so, so careful, layering every word with a double meaning, and already he is not sure he has the energy to do this properly. “But perhaps you were misinformed, or perhaps I misspoke.” He glances toward Romanoff with a lazy smirk. “I believe I said I would speak with my _dear_ brother, not with you—and I do not believe I ever indicated I intended to cooperate with SHIELD.”

Romanoff’s eyebrows draw together very slightly, and Fury’s eye narrows. At least they are paying attention. Thor, whose expression of thinly veiled optimism faded to disappointment as Loki spoke, crosses his arms and scowls. “You _said_ you wished to speak with me—so speak, and for once in your life, speak plainly.”

“Ah, Thor,” Loki says with mocking pity. “Always so certain that every circumstance you encounter is as simple as you are. No, I am afraid that I can say nothing any of you will be terribly pleased to hear. I merely wish you to understand the depths of your own hopelessness if you truly think your motley band alone can stop what is coming.”

“Loki, enough,” Thor growls.

Fury cuts him off with a wave. “You know, you’ve got a lot of big talk, but I haven’t actually seen anything that impresses me yet. So if you’re not gonna tell us anything new, I think I’m gonna take a nap.”

It’s a blatant jab at Loki’s pride, but it’s useful for now, so he lets it stand. “You can barely cope with me and a handful of human minions. What can you possibly do against the army that is coming after me, or the being who placed that army under my command?”

“I’d say we’ve done pretty well for ourselves so far,” Fury says.

“And you forget that I have allied myself with these humans,” Thor says. “No army can stand against the might of Asgard.”

Bless Thor for unwittingly giving him a perfect opening. “Are you so certain of that, Thunderer? You know nothing of my—benefactor. What would you say if I told you that all the Nine came together to defeat him once, lifetimes ago, and could do no more than banish him?”

That gives Thor pause, and he frowns. “I know of no such being.”

Loki is suddenly visited by the horrible and rather hysterical desire to laugh. If his gamble fails because Thor could not be bothered to _pay attention_ during his lessons— “I will not speak his name,” he says, “but I should hope you remember the stories of Death’s lover, the Mad Titan. _That_ is what you face.”

“Those were _stories_ ,” Thor says. “Not…” He trails off, and Loki lets him think (Fury and Romanoff remain silent as well, further proof of their intelligence). “You would have me believe that Thanos exists in truth?”

Loki flinches at the name, unable to control it, and he curses himself for not expecting this. At least his involuntary reaction might yet be useful, if the spies interpret it correctly. He bares his teeth in an expression no one could reasonably mistake for a smile and says, “Oh, he exists, and he is crueler and more powerful than your feeble imagination can grasp. And to think, Odinson, I would never have encountered him if the Allfather had seen fit to pull me back from the Void instead. Isn’t that funny?”

“And you hate us so much that you would join with such a being to bring destruction to innocent Midgard?” Thor demands.

Loki gives him a brightly false smile. “Do you not recall what I said to you on the Bifrost, brother? I have _always_ hated you for taking the throne that should have been mine.” He is certain, at least, that he did not say that. If Thor is still too dense to realize something is amiss, Loki cannot imagine what will get his attention, but at least this does not all depend on Thor. “And now you have done it again, bringing a monster into your midst that will doom you all, just the same as your idiot parents.” He presses one hand against the glass, fixing Fury and Romanoff with a stare that he knows is more than a little mad. “It’s too late. Don’t you see? Try to save yourselves if you like; it will avail you nothing. As long as that scepter is on board, you are all doomed.”

“You talk a lot about doom for a guy in a cage,” Fury says.

Loki laughs. “I am precisely where I want to be, Director. Can any of you say the same?” This lie tastes sour on his tongue as none of the others did, and his head hurts, and he knows he is losing the thread, unable to strike the right balance between telling them too much and too little. It is already so hard to think.

Fury looks at him hard for a moment, then nods once and turns to go. “Thor, Romanoff, time for a team huddle. Let’s go.”

“Do make haste,” Loki calls after them. “I would hate for you to miss the fun.” Thor, frowning deeply, seems to want to say something but holds his peace when Romanoff ushers him out. She glances back at him, expression reassuringly thoughtful. Fury puts one hand to his ear as he leaves, speaking quietly enough that even Loki cannot hear him, and then Loki is alone in his cage again.


	4. Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** More references to past torture, and a scene that probably qualifies as mind-rape. The accompanying artwork by neurovicky is also a little bloody. (Actually seeing this stuff makes me feel a little bad about beating up on Loki so much, but...not bad enough to stop.)
> 
> Sorry this chapter's a little later than usual (it's still Monday in my time zone, but that's about all I can say); between holiday stuff, Yuletide stuff, and work, things are getting pretty busy over here.

Fury puts one hand to his ear as he leaves, speaking quietly enough that even Loki cannot hear him, and then Loki is alone in his cage again. And now, of course, all he can do is _wait_ and see if the humans manage to put the pieces together soon enough to stop what is coming. They will have to deal with Barton and his men, first, and then there is the Tesseract itself, and he will go mad (again) if he is forced to sit here and do nothing.

Assuming he is strong enough, he could eavesdrop invisibly on the meeting so he will at least know whether the Avengers have understood his warnings. It’s another risk, because he is not at all sure he can sustain that type of working without the scepter’s help, and attempting to do so might leave him more open to its influence—and if his words have already alerted the Other, it will be harder to hide his intentions, the more he has confirmed what he tried to do. But…aside from his own restless unease at knowing nothing, he has to know what they are thinking if he is to adapt his plans and continue trying to avert utter disaster. On balance, remaining unaware seems the greater risk.

Loki settles himself on the bench and leans back against the cell’s curving wall. He shuts his eyes, feeling around the edges of his abilities. His _seidr_ is badly depleted, so much that he can only assume he was deliberately prevented from realizing the extent of it, to ensure he would depend on the scepter and remain weak and ignorant, and anger twists in his gut at the thought. But there is enough for a working of this kind, as long as he is careful not to overextend himself. With the mental equivalent of a deep breath, he casts his mind out, leaving a tether back to his body. He can feel the strain already in the slight pressure building behind his eyes, and he takes a moment to strengthen the connection before he reaches out for the Avengers. They are nearby, bright glowing spots of life in his senses, and he anchors himself in Thor’s familiar energy before he can think better of it. This is not the time to make things more difficult for himself simply because his relationship with Thor is…complicated.

It still takes a moment for the room to resolve in his mind’s eye, and if his impression of it is not quite as detailed as he would prefer, it is good enough for now. Rogers and Banner are seated at a long table with Fury standing at its head, hands resting on the back of his chair. Stark is sitting on the edge of the table itself, and Thor is pulling out a chair for Romanoff.

“I hope you were all paying attention,” Fury says, “because it’s pop-quiz time. Thoughts?”

“I think ‘bag of cats’ was generous,” Stark says. “More like rabid Tasmanian devils or something.”

Fury’s jaw twitches. “Do I really have to specify _helpful_ thoughts?”

“If he’s trying to convince us of something and he isn’t just posturing,” Rogers says, “it’s still a pretty hard sell, and I don’t like how he told us to hurry. Could be he just wants to make us nervous so we rush into a mistake.”

“You know him the best,” Banner says to Thor. “Does that sound like something he’d do?”

“Yes,” Thor says after a moment’s hesitation, and Loki wants to scream, or possibly hit him. “It has long been his preference, to manipulate others through his words rather than stating his desires outright. But…I am not sure, in truth, that I ever knew him as well as I always believed. I can no longer be certain of much, where my brother is concerned.”

“He called himself a monster,” Banner says. “At first I thought maybe he was talking about me, but…”

Thor winces, and Fury pounces on the reaction. “Something you wanna share with the rest of the class, Odinson?”

“I mentioned that he was adopted,” Thor says reluctantly. Of course he did; he wouldn’t want his new admirers thinking he shared blood with a beast. “What I did not say is that he is an entirely different species.” Shame colors his expression, and even from here Loki can feel his stomach clenching to see it. He should not be surprised to know Thor’s pretty words about brotherhood were lies, and this sudden rush of hurt and betrayal marks him truly as a fool, to think perhaps somehow Thor could look past what Loki cannot. Banner is right that Loki called himself a monster; why should he now let it pain him that Thor is clearly ashamed to name a monster his brother?

“Oh my god,” Stark says, “is he a shapeshifter? That’s potentially both awesome and horrifying.”

“What you have seen is his accustomed form,” Thor says. “Until very recently, only our parents knew it was not his natural appearance. In truth, he is a Frost Giant, a member of a race that Asgard has…regarded unfavorably for quite some time.”

Rogers straightens in his seat, and Fury’s eye sharpens. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Thor looks down at his hands. “Their king was bloodthirsty and aggressive. He tried to seize your realm about 1,000 years ago, and we defeated him. And since then, Asgard has tended to view the Jotnar as…well, monsters. I was not there, when Loki learned he was Jotun, but…he did not take it well.”

“The Destroyer incident last year,” Fury says, and Loki twitches. Last year? Surely…surely he was with Thanos much, much longer than a single year.

 _Even the flow of time runs differently here, when Thanos wills it_ , he abruptly remembers Gamora saying. Well, isn’t that just… _wonderful_. So he cannot trust his own perception of something as basic as the passage of time, either.

Thor grimaces. “Among other things. If he is now calling himself a monster, then…he may not believe me when I beg him to return to the family that loves and misses him. I…think now that he has always doubted, to some extent, and now he is certain he does not belong with us.”

For a moment Loki is frozen with surprise, to hear Thor willingly claim him as family even after revealing his true nature, and to realize Thor has perhaps not been so blind as Loki has long believed. He pushes it aside; he cannot afford distractions now.

Stark throws up his hands. “Great, so on top of the bog-standard crazy, we’ve got racism, family issues, and an identity crisis. What’s next, a bad hair day? No, wait, he’s got that covered too.”

“So,” Fury says, ignoring Stark, “the things you think you know about your brother might be completely inaccurate by now.”

Thor shrugs, a strangely helpless gesture. “It is possible.”

“Well, what about the grandstanding?” Rogers asks. “Is that normal for him?”

Thor hesitates again, then shakes his head. “My brother has always been clever, and he rarely speaks without purpose. He would not boast in this way and risk showing his hand, not unless it was part of some strategy. At least, I do not believe he would. What that strategy might be, I do not know.”

“Agent Romanoff, you’ve been pretty quiet,” Fury says. “Observations?”

She nods and folds her hands on the table. “I think he’s being monitored and he isn’t being straight with us because he can’t. That was my impression anyway, based on what he said and how his behavior changed between when I first talked to him and when the three of us did, and it tracks with what Thor’s just told us.”

Oh, thank the Norns. If they all survive this, Loki will have to find some way to repay her, especially for managing to be objective even when her hawk is in danger.

Rogers is frowning. “You think he might be trying to warn us?”

“I think it would be a mistake to take too much on faith, one way or another,” she says, “but it’s a strong possibility.”

“Okay,” Stark says, “so who wants to translate out of self-aggrandizing Viking bullshit into something that actually makes sense?”

Romanoff’s eyebrow twitches as if she wants to say something pointed, but she simply shrugs. “It’s not that complicated. He outright told us things are more complex than they might seem, that he’s working for somebody named Thanos, and that he has an army coming. He also strongly implied that it’s dangerous to keep him and the scepter in the same place, which could mean Barton and whoever else he picked up will use it as a beacon to attack the helicarrier.”

“Uh,” Banner says, his voice suddenly higher. “Maybe we want to land, then? If things are going to get exciting, you really don’t want me to be here, or I might end up doing Loki’s job for him.”

“I told Hill to put us over water already,” Fury says. “We’re over the Atlantic now, with the bridge standing by to descend if necessary.” Good: at least Fury is taking basic precautions. He turns to Thor. “What do you know about Thanos?”

“Legends,” Thor says, looking troubled. “It is said he wanted to sacrifice all life in the universe to Death, his lover. If it is he who sent Loki after the Tesseract, it is all the more crucial that we keep it from him.”

“Okay, and are we thinking Loki was coerced into working for him?” Rogers asks. “That seems like it might be a real stretch. If it’s true, though…”

“His specific words were ‘powerful’ and ‘cruel,’” Romanoff says. “He did say it was a willing partnership, but—”

“He also spoke of a conversation that never happened,” Thor says. “On the Bifrost, he told me he never wanted the throne. Now he reminds me of it and claims he said the exact opposite in the same breath as he insists his hate drove him to choose this alliance with Thanos. You truly think…?” The growing hope in his eyes is painful, and Loki cannot look at him—for pitiful gratitude that Thor is still willing to believe something other than the worst of him, and sick anger that he was so ready to assume the worst until a handful of mortals presented compelling arguments otherwise.

“I think it’s possible,” Romanoff repeats.

“Okay, so now what?” Stark says, his voice gone very slightly blurry. “We just believe him and act on information that could be another trap, on the off chance that we’ve got a bigger enemy? Because look, he busted up a town because of a fight with his brother, singlehandedly destroyed a SHIELD installation, took out a guy’s eyeball, and threatened a freaking Holocaust survivor. Even if he doesn’t want to be this Thanos’s tool, he’s still a tool _in general_.”

Banner straightens, frowning at the monitor for the laboratory where the scepter is being kept, then at the one that displays Loki’s cage. For a moment Loki has no idea what’s caught his attention, because he isn’t doing anything interesting, although the connection is getting harder to hold, all the Avengers beginning to grow indistinct, and he doesn’t know why.

“So, what,” Rogers says, sounding incredulous, “you want to ignore something that might be good intel just because you don’t like the source? I’m not saying we should blindly trust him, but we’d be irresponsible if we didn’t take this into account.”

“Um, guys?” Banner says.

Something is wrong, again. Something is tugging on his mind, weakening the connection, and he struggles to think past the sensation that his head is stuffed with wool. His awareness is fraying, split between his distant body and his hovering consciousness, and it seems to take a great deal of effort to focus on anything. He can see himself on the monitor, slumping forward with one hand on his head, which must be why Banner is looking at him, but he isn’t—he hasn’t moved. Has he? He would feel the difference. Should feel the difference.

“Oh, come on,” Stark says, “like you’re the soul of responsibility. You have any idea how many crazy stories my dad told about you?”

Rogers’ eyebrows draw together. “Everything I did was to _save_ people. As far as I can tell, all _your_ stunts are just for attention.”

“Gentlemen,” Fury snaps, “if you’re going to have a pissing contest, do it on your own time. I’m not asking you to _like_ each other or the God of Crazy, I’m asking if you’ll put on your big boy pants for five seconds, do what’s necessary, and _work_ together.”

“ _Guys_!” Banner says, and something in his voice finally catches the others’ attention.

“What’s up?” Stark asks.

Banner doesn’t even look uncomfortable at the sudden attention, which is as good an indication as any that something’s wrong. “The energy levels coming off the scepter are going crazy, and Loki looks weird. Weirder. Something’s happening.”

Yes, Loki thinks. Something is wrong. Something—

Stark moves to join Banner, and then the gem at the scepter’s heart pulses in a blinding flash, and Loki feels it jerk painfully at him. Hooks sink deep into his mind and _yank_ , and there’s a surreal moment where he is caught like a fly on a pin, his mind torn in three different directions and each part of him too paralyzed to move. He sees himself on the monitor, dropping to his knees and clutching his head while blood runs in thin streams from his nose; feels, but distantly, his knees hitting the floor with bruising force; and feels the Other’s claws burrowing into his mind.

_No, damn you, get out of my head—_

Thor seizes the screen. “What’s wrong, what’s it doing to him?”

Loki doubles over, choking, and vomits dark blood on the floor—sees it twice, once in front of his face, once on the monitor, and then everything is ripped away and he can see nothing at all. He knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop it. Agony floods his spirit-body even before the asteroid field has finished forming around him and he can feel the rock under his knees, and cold terror douses his rage.

He is Loki of Asgard and he will not be used, but something inside him shrivels at the thought of more _pain_.

“You think yourself clever, don’t you, little god?” the Other says, one misshapen, clammy hand gripping the side of Loki’s head. “Did you think your master is as foolish as you are? He does not part with his tools and toys without knowing that he can retrieve them.” His thumbs press in hard and Loki’s vision turns white with pain, as if all the stars above him have forced their way inside his body to burn him up from within. The fire is all-encompassing, inescapable, and when he tries to scream he gags on his own blood. 

“And did you think we would not notice your pathetic, grasping attempts to warn the humans?” the Other asks. “Or are you truly so incompetent that you cannot see your own folly?”

 _Damn_ , Loki thinks dizzily. Well, at least he did buy himself some time; he has no doubt the Other would have responded instantly if he had not tried for subtlety, though that is small comfort when his skull is threatening to crack open. If he can salvage the situation, or at least gain a little more time— “Neither,” he gasps. “I wanted—they listened, I can make them believe I am on their side, I can—use them—” Every cell screams with pain, and he can feel his mind beginning to unravel as the Other starts to reassert control.

“Did you think we needed you so badly that we wouldn’t watch you?” the Other says, his voice clawing through Loki’s head. “Did you think we would let you run wild and try to thwart our plans? It is done. Everything has already been set in motion, and we have no greater need of you as anything but an example of failure and disobedience.”

“Please, I am still—I can still be of use—” It’s so hard to think, everything tearing apart inside him, an endlessly dark chasm of memories yawning open (the Void and Sanctuary and fire and poison and cold steel and darkness so thick it chokes him and _no I can’t I can’t do this again no no no_ ) and he scrambles for any lie that might yet save him. “They will trust me now, I can deliver these heroes to your master, just let me—”

“Of course you can still be of use. You will be a mindless weapon until we retrieve you. We broke you once; are you so arrogant as to believe we cannot return you to that state with little more than a thought?”

 _Is that another rhetorical question or are you actually hoping for an answer_ Loki wants to say, pointless petty defiance to say _I am not yours_ but even that is beyond him now. He can _feel_ cold fingers worming into all the cracks inside him and prying them apart, splitting him open along fault lines he didn’t even know existed until just a handful of minutes ago. It is not just agony but _violation_ , nauseating and relentless, and it has to stop, he has to make it stop, he will do _anything_ —

Reality snaps back into place around him with dizzying abruptness. He is curled on a cold metal floor, weak and disoriented, and his mouth tastes of blood and sour vomit. When he tries to spit, he gags, and a sudden fit of coughing leaves him breathless, so he decides he is going to stay very still and do nothing for the foreseeable future. Except a very familiar, insistent voice is battering at him, and he has a sudden and equally familiar desire to throw something heavy in the speaker’s direction. Probably a book, although anything near to hand will do.

“Brother, please, listen to me—” The voice turns away. “Open this door, you must let me go to him!”

“After that? Not a chance,” another voice says flatly, and it takes Loki an instant of confusion to recognize it as Fury’s. Uneasily, he wonders whether he said anything out loud when he was pleading with the Other. “If the scepter’s controlling him, God knows what he might do.”

“At least one of you is paying attention,” Loki mutters.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice is louder again, and Loki winces. “Can you hear me, brother?”

“I suspect…even the dead can hear you.” Very carefully Loki slits his eyes open; he is still in the cage, Thor watching him anxiously from the other side of the barrier, with Fury and Romanoff a few paces behind him.

Thor’s shoulders slump with relief. “Thank the Norns.”

“Thank _me_ ,” another voice says, this one a little crackly as if it’s coming from one of the mortals’ communication devices, and Loki recognizes it as Stark by little more than the annoyance it engenders. “Told you it would work.”

Moving cautiously, Loki sits up and edges away from the pool of bloody vomit on the floor. “What did you do?” he croaks, doubly annoyed by the way his own voice sounds. He must have at least been screaming physically, then.

“Made an energy shield around the scepter,” Stark says, and somehow he’s even more irritating when he’s just a disembodied voice (and Loki wants no reason to be grateful to him). “Well, Bruce helped. I’m actually using a spare arc reactor to power it and basically just blocking everything it’s emitting. Almost everything. For now. But uh, I don’t actually know how long it’s going to last because the energy’s so damn erratic, and yes, you can all mark your calendars, I _did_ just admit to not knowing something, it’s not gonna happen again anytime soon.”

There is no longer a point to attempting subterfuge—or to grandstanding, as Rogers put it, so Loki stays seated on the floor. “Listen to me. Tha—the Titan is real and he sent me to bring him the Tesseract so he can reenter the Nine Realms. He must not be allowed to succeed, no matter the cost. Selvig has the Tesseract now and he will use it to open the portal above Stark Tower—”

“ _Seriously_?” Stark’s voice says.

“—and bring in an army of Chitauri. I do not know if there is time to intercept him but if you cannot, I _think_ the scepter can be used to shut down the portal—”

“You _think_?” Fury says.

“My mind was not entirely my own and I still managed to work in a bit of sabotage without realizing I was doing it,” Loki snaps, “so you will have to forgive me for not making things more convenient for you. I still can barely think with the Titan’s lackey trying to reclaim me through that damned scepter—and if he does, at _best_ he will tear apart my mind and leave me a drooling wreck that can give you no more information. More likely he would seize control entirely and turn me into a mindless puppet bent only on your destruction. So by all means, continue to waste everyone’s time with pointless questions.”

“Brother,” Thor says very quietly, and Loki flinches. “What did he do to you?”

“What did I just say about _pointless questions_ ,” Loki says, deliberately looking anywhere but at Thor. “You have to land this ship now—”

He is cut off by a distant explosion, and the ship shudders under them. Fury grabs a handrail and barks, “The hell are you idiots doing to my boat?”

“That wasn’t me!” Stark yelps. “Bruce, hey, you’re good, right?”

Another male voice, a bit muffled: “Keeping a lid on it. Yep. Trying.”

The ship rocks again, and Fury claps a hand to his ear. Loki is almost certain what the director is hearing through his earpiece, and it’s confirmed when Fury drops his hand and glares at him. Romanoff’s gaze is slightly more impartial but no less intense.

“It’s your hawk, isn’t it,” Loki says, and he hopes his weary amusement doesn’t show on his face. Of _course_ his plan to sow chaos on this vessel would begin falling into place exactly when he no longer wants it to succeed.

“Apparently not _mine_ at the moment,” Fury says. “If you’re actually trying to help, why haven’t you called off your damn attack dogs?”

“It is not that simple,” Loki begins, and then he hunches forward with a gasp as a flash of pain sizzles through him. It’s not as bad as before and he doesn’t lose his grip on reality, but the building pressure in his temples is a warning that it’s only a matter of time.

Thor’s knuckles go white on the handrail. “Stark, what did you—”

“Nothing, I didn’t do anything, why does everybody always—shit, okay, whatever’s coming off the scepter was already burning through my field, but that last explosion knocked something loose and now the shield’s deteriorating about three times as fast, and even the arc reactor can’t keep up with it.”

“Can you fix it?” Thor demands.

“ _Maybe_ , if I can get five seconds without everyone bugging me—” There is another explosion, the ship drops with a lurch that sends even Thor staggering, and the voice dissolves in static. When Stark speaks again, his voice is crackly and distorted. “— _shit_ , no I can’t, the lab’s basically gone now and I can’t get back to the scepter so you’ve got whatever’s left of the shield and that’s it—Bruce, hey, look at me, think nice calming sciencey thoughts until I get to my suit—”

“Thor, I need you on Hulk duty _now_ ,” Fury says.

Thor casts a torn look at Loki, who realizes vaguely through the throbbing in his head and his wavering vision that his nose has started to bleed again. “I cannot—”

“I’m not _asking_ you—”

“Guys, I got this!” Stark says. “Come on, buddy, you keep doing whatever you’re doing, almost there and I’ll get you somewhere better, okay?”

“Director,” Loki says, “you need to get me or the scepter off this ship immediately.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re kind of _under attack_ right now, so that might be a little difficult.”

Loki grits his teeth and forces himself to say, “Then I want you to drop me.”

“Excuse me?” Fury says.

“Do what you threatened and put this cage to its intended use.”

“And why the hell would I want to do that?”

Loki struggles to his feet, one hand pressed to the glass for balance. Whatever happens, he will face it standing. “Unless you can think of a better way to put a great deal of distance between me and the scepter _very quickly_ , the situation in which you have found yourself is going to get much worse.”

“You could drown,” Thor protests.

“This cage is part of a _ship_ , I am quite sure it will _float_ ,” Loki snaps. In truth he is sure of no such thing, but that is not the point, as usual; for Thor, he only needs to be convincing, and derision tends to accomplish that handily.

“No,” Thor says. “No, this is—”

“A bad idea,” Fury says. “Your guys are attacking my ship, you’re the only one who knows what the hell is going on, and now you want off?”

Loki’s already tenuous control snaps, and he slams one fist into the barrier, voice cracking as he shouts, “I will not have that _thing_ in my head again!”

Romanoff is standing almost directly behind Fury, so he sees the sudden, subtle shift in her expression, and he knows that this, at least, will be all right. She understands why he needs this, she sees what must be done, and she will do it. He was more right than he realized at first, when he thought Romanoff and Gamora were very much alike. Romanoff, too, knows what it is to be made a weapon for others to use, that any scrap of regained personhood is precious, that cruel mercy is still mercy.

Without a word, she takes two steps to the console and hits a switch, and the floor under the cage disappears. Thor starts forward and Fury wheels on Romanoff, whose hand is already touching the control that will send the cage plummeting. She looks at him in an unspoken question and he is suddenly unable to speak because he is going to fall again, he is _asking_ for it, and he _can’t_ —

This fall will not last forever, and whatever happens when he lands, it cannot possibly be worse than what awaited him at the end of his last plunge into the abyss.

He nods, her hand moves, and the cage drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I don't post many multi-chapter fics because they take so damn long for me to finish, which means that when I _do_ get a chance to indulge myself in a cliffhanger, of course I go for it. Don't judge me.
> 
> Because next weekend is Christmas, though, I will _try_ to get the next chapter up a little earlier than normal to make up for the cliffhanger, but it still needs editing and everything that kept me busy this weekend will still be keeping me busy the rest of the week, so...I can't make any promises. If I don't get another chapter up before then, well, merry Christmas if you celebrate, and if you don't, I hope you have a good weekend.


	5. Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so much for posting early, oops. The last couple days were even busier than I expected. But it's here now, with more art by neurovicky (aaaaahhhh babies lookit them)
> 
>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** Drowning; otherwise, this chapter has mostly canon-typical violence.

The cage drops, flinging Loki off his feet immediately (he is vaguely conscious of an absurd flicker of relief that at least no one else can see this). He hits the wall and scrambles for purchase, but there’s nothing to grip, and then the cage slews sideways and begins to tumble end over end. He crashes into the opposite wall, hauls himself halfway upright, and lunges to the side—putting him in just the right place to slide into the bench bolted to one wall when the cell flips again. Gravity nearly rips his fingers away before he can grab hold, but with a surge of adrenaline and fury, he manages to wedge himself into a slightly better position under the bench.

Were he at full strength, or anything better than this drained state, he could at least slow the cell’s descent. But he has neither the strength nor the focus, so all he can do is cling to the bench as he falls, the cell tumbling end over end and his heartbeat roaring in his head even louder than the wind outside—

The chamber hits water with stunning force and for an instant everything goes white. When he can see again he is halfway across the room, his head ringing, his whole body throbbing, and a persistent high-pitched whine filling his ears. The cell would, perhaps, have been of the right shape to float had it landed a little more gently; instead the glass, having taken the brunt of the impact, cracks as Loki blinks at it. The cell begins to sink, and the glass shatters inward with the sudden increase in pressure, and the chamber begins to flood.

For a moment Loki just stares at the water, too dazed to understand what it means, and then he forces himself to his knees. The world dips and shivers around him, and he is not sure whether it is only his own dizziness or the cell tipping as it sinks. He tries to get his feet under himself and staggers, falling hard to one knee in the rising seawater.

The cell shifts again, more glass breaking away, and still more water floods inside, knocking Loki off balance again. He grits his teeth and begins to drag himself hand over hand toward the opening, fighting water the whole way until the cell tips fully downward and cold seawater closes over his head.

Under normal circumstances, he could shatter the nearest cell wall with a thought, but his head is still spinning too much to concentrate, and without the scepter, he is not sure he is capable of even that much. So instead he must reach the opening, or he will drown. His lungs are burning already, his body heavy and sluggish, and the cell keeps dragging him further downward. By the time he manages to gain the opening, he can barely see for all the tiny black specks crowding across his vision. He fumbles for the jagged edges, aware only of a vague surprise and no pain when blood blooms from his palms, and then he hauls himself clear of the cell with the last of his strength. The surface is far away, impossibly far, and his body will no longer obey him.

The first gasp of seawater is agonizing. His lungs try to cough it out and only succeed in breathing more water. His chest feels full of spikes that sharpen and grow with every passing second, and he understands: he is going to drown. He has survived everything the Norns have seen fit to throw at him—Jotunheim, the Void, the Chitauri, even the damned Mad Titan and his children—and now he is going to _drown_. On _Midgard_ , of all places. Disgust doesn’t even begin to cover his feelings on the matter.

But at least, he thinks, he was able to choose this. They took that away and he took it back, because he is Loki of Asgard and he will not be used. He clings to that as his body fails and the dark closes in—

And then a blurry, indistinct figure fills his narrowing vision, and something collides with him and he is rising upward, somehow, the light of the surface growing closer and closer until he bursts out of the water entirely. Everything is bright and sharp and then he is on solid ground again, strong arms still holding him up. Strong, familiar arms. Loki vomits up a great quantity of seawater, the majority of which ends up on Thor’s cape, although he’s soaked enough already that it makes little difference. For a long moment he is helpless to do anything but hold onto Thor and gasp for breath (and try to pretend that he does not feel abruptly, absurdly _safe_ in his brother’s embrace).

“Stop making me watch you fall,” Thor says, his voice choked.

Loki coughs. “My apologies. Next time I will try to make sure you are not looking.”

Thor’s hands seize his shoulders and shake him, but only a little. “Loki, _stop_. Why must you always—you know that is not what I meant!”

Sheer force of habit demands further argument, but he is too wrung out for much. “Not everything is about the Mighty Thor, you know.”

Thor’s grip tightens. “No, this is about _you_ , and you are my little brother and I love you, and if you will not value your own life, apparently I must do it for you.”

Loki definitely doesn’t have the strength to deal with this now, especially not the treacherous warmth that blooms inside him at his idiot brother’s declaration, so he simply shakes his head. “It was a matter of some necessity, in this case.”

Thor sighs, hands sliding down to grasp Loki’s upper arms as if he thinks Loki is unable to remain upright without support (which, to be fair, is probably true at the moment). “And did it work? Are you free of the scepter’s influence?”

Trying to examine the state of his mind just hurts, so he shrugs. “At least for the moment. I also suspect I have a concussion and I have no idea if that will make matters better or worse, so I dare not get any closer to the scepter. Or the Tesseract, I suppose.”

“Can you heal yourself?” Thor asks, looking worried.

Loki shrugs again, winces, and brings one arm up to press the cool metal of his vambrace against his forehead. “Perhaps.” He is almost certain he does not have enough _seidr_ or concentration to do so at the moment, but Thor hardly needs to know that. “I imagine your friends could use your help. I am certainly not going anywhere.”

“My place is with you,” Thor says, and for a moment Loki just blinks stupidly at him, unable to comprehend those words in that order coming from Thor. The probable concussion doesn’t help, of course, but that’s far from the only reason. He has heard “Know your place” so many times from Odin and Thor, sometimes with great detail on what exactly that place is, and on rare occasions he has heard Odin similarly lecture Thor. He has never heard…this.

“I have not been the brother I should,” Thor continues, so damn earnest, and he seems to have correctly interpreted Loki’s disbelieving silence. “All this time I thought you lost, I swore I would do better if I could only have you back. I am not going to abandon you.”

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. It is too much, too soon, and he is still too dazed to think straight, and now more than ever he cannot bear Thor seeing him so pathetically weak. He just needs Thor to _leave_ so he can recover—or not—in private. (He wants to do nothing more than _rest_ and let his brother protect him again, just for a little while, never mind that the desire is as shameful as the rest of him.)

“Well, I cannot get any closer to the scepter, or my dramatic exit will be for nothing,” he says, “and without any way to call them off, I cannot stop Barton and his men from pressing their attack. Unless you wish SHIELD’s flying fortress to fall from the sky—”

“Of course not,” Thor says, “and there may be something you can do. Stark gave me—” He pulls a little device from his ear and holds it out.

Loki takes it, dubious, remembering the fragile communication devices Barton and his people used, but this one at least looks intact, as wet as it is. He slides it into his ear and flinches as Stark’s voice blares out, “—hearing this, Thor, because—”

“This is not Thor,” Loki says.

“Loki, okay, even better. You got any way to communicate with your people? Or like, do you know what frequency they’re using?”

“I do not,” Loki says. “That is—no. To both questions. It seemed unnecessary at the time.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Stark says. “Listen, what if I have JARVIS patch you in to the ship’s intercom—you can do that, right?”

“Of course I can, sir,” another voice says, unfamiliar and oddly metallic.

“Right. So, we put you on the loudspeaker, you tell everybody to surrender, will that work?”

Loki sits up straighter and immediately regrets it as even that small movement makes his vision blur and his temples throb. “I—yes. I will try.”

“And there’s no Fight Club bullshit going on here, right? They’re not going to go ‘oh, you told us you’d say that’ or whatever?”

Loki briefly considers asking what in Hel the mortal is talking about and decides it hardly matters. “I gave them no such instructions, but…it is possible the scepter may have communicated something of the kind to them without my knowledge.”

“Awesome,” Stark says flatly. “Well, worth a shot. Once JARVIS says you’re live, you’ll be broadcasting to the whole carrier, and everyone on board will be able to hear you, got it?”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” Loki says.

“Ready, sir,” says the other voice, presumably JARVIS.

“You’re on,” Stark says. “I’d say knock ‘em dead but frankly I don’t want to give you ideas.”

“Agent Barton,” Loki says, ignoring this latest bit of inanity, “if you can hear me, the plan has changed. I need you and your men to stand down _now_. All of you—the plan has changed. Put down your weapons and surrender. The plan has changed. _Stand down_.” Without a better understanding of the scepter and the gem that powers it, he has no idea whether his thralls’ loyalty is more truly to him or to the Titan’s interests, and all he can do now is hope for the former.

“Talk to me, J,” Stark says.

“Agent Barton is surrendering to Agent Romanoff, who is strongly recommending cognitive recalibration,” Jarvis reports. “Of the others under Barton’s command, 47% are standing down as well. However—”

There is an explosion, audible even through the earpiece, and Stark swears. “Yeah, Jarvis, I see it. Rogers, get out here and help me restart engine 3.”

“Is Banner—”

“Meditating really hard,” Stark says. “You two get your asses to New York and stop Selvig, and by the way, Asgard better pay for any damage to my tower.”

Loki relays the message to Thor (well, the important part), who looks torn, and it is not hard to guess why; he wants neither to leave Loki behind nor to lead him into danger. Loki forbears from rolling his eyes, which at this juncture would only hurt his head, and points out, “I may be able to talk to Selvig, and I am not so injured that I cannot handle a short flight. As long as you don’t _drop_ me.” That is the wrong thing to say and he knows it the moment the words are out, for Thor’s expression spasms with the kind of guilt and self-loathing Loki had never imagined him capable.

“Never again,” Thor says. “I swear, brother, I will not let you fall again.”

Loki sighs, even as something in him twinges uncomfortably. “You did not. I let go,” and he knows this is true. “I do not intend to do that today.”

Thor hesitates for a moment, searching Loki’s face, and finally nods. “We will speak later, then.” He offers his arm, and Loki suppresses another sigh but lets Thor pull him close, and then Mjolnir sweeps them both into the air. At least the rushing wind prevents much conversation when Thor flies with him like this; Loki is sure of very little, at the moment, but he is nearly certain he is not ready to face any of the things Thor will want to talk about. But he does surreptitiously rest his head on Thor’s shoulder, and not just to shelter from the wind.

The city is filling the horizon when he feels it happen, like a punch to the gut and a silent explosion behind his eyes, and he knows what he will see even before he makes himself look: blue light exploding upward from one of the tallest towers and ripping open a hole in the sky. He swears, and then flinches when a voice in his ear that he identifies as Rogers says, “What’s wrong?”

“We’re too late,” Loki says. “The portal just opened.” His hawk swears too, and Loki pushes aside the complicated tangle of relief, guilt, and loss at the realization that Barton is no longer his either. This is not the time for such things.

“The situation on the helicarrier is under control, and we’re on our way,” Rogers says. “Stark has the scepter and he’ll get there first.”

Thor lands on the nearest building, and Loki stumbles a little, pretending he doesn’t need Thor’s steadying hand. At least the pain in his head is improving. “Good, because there is no other way to close it.” As he watches, the first Chitauri begin to pour through the portal, followed by the first explosions. “And _hurry_. I think I kept the portal small, but they are already coming through.”

“Tell Thor to do what he can to contain them,” Rogers orders. “How far from the scepter do you have to be? We might need you too.”

“I’ve no idea,” Loki says.

“I can throw together another shield as soon as I get to the tower,” Stark says, “assuming your alien buddies haven’t already trashed the place.”

“Brother?” Thor says.

Loki stares up at the portal, stomach clenching. Close enough to fight Chitauri is almost certainly close enough for the scepter to affect him even before Stark reaches the tower. But—he brought this. He owes them something. “I will have some warning, if the Titan’s lackey tries to take—” ( _or destroy_ ) “—my mind. If you are willing to take the risk, I will fight them with Thor.”

There’s a short hesitation, and then Rogers says, “Do it.”

 _I am Loki of Asgard_ , he thinks, staring up at the void beyond the sky, with his brother beside him, _and I will not be used. You will not have this. You will not have me, ever again._ He exhales and turns to Thor. “Let us fight, then.”

It is chaos already, down on the streets, fires burning and vehicles overturned, and for once Loki takes no pleasure in it. This is no glorious battle, as he promised the Other—perhaps it would be, were he still here to sow chaos and destruction from afar as a salve to his rage, but there is no glory in the wreckage of homes and businesses or the terrified citizens fleeing for their lives. He is grateful, he realizes, that he has an unassailable reason to want to save as many humans as he can, to deny Thanos any incidental sacrifices to his lady. That is another thought for later, assuming he is granted the time.

Thor calls the lightning and blasts several invaders away from a vehicle full of civilians, guarding them as they flee to safety, or at least somewhere slightly safer. Loki casts about for a weapon, thinking with frustration of the scepter’s power that he cannot duplicate on his own. If he at least had some throwing knives—

He doesn’t see the Chitauri coming up behind Thor until it’s almost too late. The explosion throws them both back, and the Chitauri lunges, its energy rifle aimed directly at Thor’s head, too close and too fast for Thor to block.

What happens next is pure instinct, no thought involved beyond something like _don’t you dare_. Loki dredges up what is left of his _seidr_ and flings out a shield of it, covering Thor and reflecting the blast back onto the Chitauri—and finds himself on hands and knees, gasping, tiny lights bursting in his vision as he struggles to remain conscious. He cannot remember the last time he overextended himself this badly (yes he can, in the Void and in Sanctuary, and he cannot think about that now). But Thor is rolling back to his feet, and that is the important thing. Loki can only watch, his head ringing, as Thor dispatches the Chitauri with a single blow from Mjolnir and then turns to Loki with a broad grin that dims as soon as he sets eyes on him. “Brother, are you—”

“Fine,” Loki says. “I just need…a moment.”

He tries to stand and nearly collapses again, only Thor’s steadying grip keeping him upright. His face, when Loki manages to focus on it, is pinched with worry. “You should not have done that.”

“Then try harder not to get shot,” Loki says breathlessly. “Idiot.”

Thor shakes his head, but he is smiling again, small and a little wistful. “It is good beyond words to have you back at my side, brother.”

“Sentiment,” Loki mutters, but he has to fight the foolish urge to smile back. Thor knows what he is and what he has done, and still he worries, and calls him brother, and _wants_ him here.

“ _Are_ you all right?” Thor asks—concerned, not impatient or mocking, not the tone of someone chiding his tagalong little brother to stop slowing him down. He should be annoyed that Thor seems to believe him incapable, Loki thinks, but he can’t quite muster the necessary irritation. “If you have drained yourself—”

“I can fight,” Loki says, and grimaces. “Apparently not with magic. I don’t know why.” He scoops up the fallen Chitauri’s rifle. “This will do for now.”

“Coming in hot!” Stark’s voice blares in his ear, and yes, Loki can feel the scepter now, pressing in at the edges of his awareness, cold fingers groping for purchase—and not quite finding it. His head is pounding again, but it is only pain, nothing breaching his defenses or peeling back the thin layer of control that keeps his memories of torment from overwhelming him. Well, the concussion must have been good for something, then.

“I can keep him out of my mind,” Loki says, looking up past the tower. “If you can destroy the Chitauri command center beyond the portal, all the Chitauri troops will fall with it.”

“Manhattan doesn’t have that kind of time,” Rogers says. “Stark—”

A Chitauri Leviathan plunges through the portal. Loki swears again, hears it echoed by most of the Avengers, and whirls to Thor. “Get me a skiff. We have to get in the air.”

If Thor is bothered by taking orders from his little brother, he hides it well, immediately taking off to intercept one of the Chitauri soldiers flying down the canyon formed by the mortals’ enormous buildings. Loki picks off a few of them from the ground, and then Thor is back, still dislodging the charred corpse from the skiff he has captured, and they both take to the air.

Even if his magic is nearly inaccessible, Loki finds himself grateful for all the time he spent as a boy learning to channel it, because only that intense level of concentration lets him keep flying and shooting with the scepter’s cold presence digging at his mind, trying to retake him, trying to flood him with memories of Sanctuary to paralyze him. They must keep the tower clear, there is no other option, so he keeps fighting even as his vision starts to narrow again and he sees, dimly, the other Avengers joining the fray.

And then something explodes on the tower’s roof, Stark whoops in triumph, and the portal snaps shut. Some of the pressure goes with it, and the giddy relief of it is almost dizzying. The portal is closed, the rest of the army trapped behind it, and Thanos will not have the Tesseract now. Whatever happens next, Thanos will not have this victory.

The rest of the battle goes by in something of a blur. The Hulk, Thor, and Iron Man together prove themselves a match for the Leviathan, and Loki is startled but not actually surprised to see Romanoff in the air with him, having commandeered another skiff and rifle. He doesn’t see Barton, wherever the archer is perched, but when Loki blasts a Chitauri chasing Romanoff, he sees the Chitauri coming up behind him plummet earthward with an arrow in its eye.

Hunting down all the remaining Chitauri takes time, but finally, _finally_ , the sky is clear again, and the Avengers gather on the street below Stark Tower while the human military begins to pick up the pieces. They are all injured and dirty and exhausted, but they are alive, and the day is theirs.

“Go team, we did it,” Stark says, still a little out of breath. “I don’t know about you guys but I think I’m calling in sick tomorrow. No more Avenging for at least a few days. Pepper can write me a note. Ever tried shawarma? There’s a shawarma joint maybe two blocks from here. I have no idea what it is and I want to try it. Avengers party.”

Loki hangs back, abruptly aware that he has no place in their victory, but Thor pulls him forward as if nothing is amiss, and even Barton does not object. Rogers glances at him with a tired smile. “You helped. I’d say that makes you at least an honorary Avenger. You probably haven’t eaten in a while anyway, I’m guessing?”

“I…do not remember,” Loki says, and Thor frowns at him in a way that reminds him inescapably of Frigga, whenever she is scolding them through her worry.

“Well, this is Tony,” Romanoff says dryly. “I’m sure it’ll be something unhealthy and filling.” She takes off after Stark, the others following her, and after a moment Loki does the same.

“We haven’t really stopped him, you know,” he says quietly to Thor as they pick their way through the rubble littering the street. “The Titan. This was only a setback. The Tesseract and the scepter will be safer on Asgard, but he will try again, eventually.”

“Yes,” Thor says, “but today we have won, and when he returns…” His hand on Loki’s shoulder is warm and grounding, and he is smiling, a little tentative but still achingly familiar and sure. “We will be ready.”

It will take time, both to prepare the realms for Thanos and to find a place in Asgard again, after…everything. He doesn’t know how to face them, any of them, after what he has done and what was done to him—doesn’t know how to face his own memories and nightmares, new and old alike, as he knows he must. But looking back at Thor now, the hope in his eyes and the steadiness in his hand, Loki thinks for the first time that it might be possible.

“Yes,” he says. “We will.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've come to the end of Part II and the bulk of the story. There's a Part III with Loki and Gamora meeting up again, but it wasn't included in the original posting for Marvel Big Bang because it wasn't all written at that point aaaaand it still isn't. Maybe it will be ready to go by next week, maybe not, although I don't feel too bad about leaving it here for a little longer than usual if necessary, since it's a pretty complete story as is.


End file.
